My mind takes snapshots of its surroundings. No kidding. I can see them once and once alone though, and only for a split second, and then, poof!, they disappear. And I really just wish I could save them, just record them and file them away for later viewing.
Like the old man coming out of the drugstore last week—snap!—and I get one of the sunlight surprising a man’s scrunched face.
Or yesterday, as I was driving, catching eyes with a girl—snap!—I get a wide-eyed face hinting of interest maybe, attraction. I’ll never know.
Or turning a corner, seeing a couple bicker, and—snap!—an angry man, leaning forward in a berating fashion, eyes nearly closed.
But the snapshots of my eyes, my life; no matter how good they are, I can never hold on to them, they always fade away.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
The window at the booth of the Taco Bell we sat at was covered with tiny flies. Flies so tiny that my friend confused them for gnats. But, no doubt, they were flies. Tiny flies. And I had never seen tiny flies before.
Their nest must have been close by. Because I killed three in one swipe of my napkin, and the general window-covering population wasn’t affected a bit.
I’m just trying to say, that I’m happy I saw some tiny flies.
Their nest must have been close by. Because I killed three in one swipe of my napkin, and the general window-covering population wasn’t affected a bit.
I’m just trying to say, that I’m happy I saw some tiny flies.
My nap today—naps are the joy of my life—was strange. Well a part of it was, at least. Here:
I dreamt this. At least I think I did, I cannot say for certain. Anyways, I was driving a car, absent-mindedly of sorts, and all of a sudden, right in front of me: a big hunk of roadkill. Only right as I’m about to smash into it, it flinches. Its stomach is shredded open, its guts are scattered all over the place, but it still flinches; it’s still alive; its head moves towards me.
And right then, I woke up with my mouth spread in horror and my eyes filled with dread.
But even this last part, I can’t say for certain if I was actually awake or not; I could have been dreaming this part, too.
It boggles my brain.
I dreamt this. At least I think I did, I cannot say for certain. Anyways, I was driving a car, absent-mindedly of sorts, and all of a sudden, right in front of me: a big hunk of roadkill. Only right as I’m about to smash into it, it flinches. Its stomach is shredded open, its guts are scattered all over the place, but it still flinches; it’s still alive; its head moves towards me.
And right then, I woke up with my mouth spread in horror and my eyes filled with dread.
But even this last part, I can’t say for certain if I was actually awake or not; I could have been dreaming this part, too.
It boggles my brain.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
A tiny, green bug once landed on my shoulder. It idled there for quite a while. It didn't leave. And then I thought... Oh boy! I'm like those one of those tough guys who walk around with falcons on their shoulders! Only instead of a falcon, I have a tiny, green bug. But no matter, it's my tiny, green bug.
And I played with it in my hands, and it scurried from finger to finger, oh, ever so quickly. A hyper tiny, green bug, that tiny green bug of mine was.
But then I put it back on my shoulder, and (to my despair) it flew away, into the hair of the guy in front of me, and apparently its tiny green legs itched this guy, and without any investigation, he swatted it, and then it dropped to the ground.
Dead.
And I played with it in my hands, and it scurried from finger to finger, oh, ever so quickly. A hyper tiny, green bug, that tiny green bug of mine was.
But then I put it back on my shoulder, and (to my despair) it flew away, into the hair of the guy in front of me, and apparently its tiny green legs itched this guy, and without any investigation, he swatted it, and then it dropped to the ground.
Dead.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
.
This is probably an unoriginal idea… but I was just thinking, you know how death is this great unknown, this thing, that nobody can get a handle on?
Well, what if, really, we catch a glimpse—just a glimpse—of death, each and every night?
You know, we fall asleep, and feel nothing, and then wake up, and in that time, we didn’t exist—we died.
And so death is really, just that familiar.
Well, what do you think?
Well, what if, really, we catch a glimpse—just a glimpse—of death, each and every night?
You know, we fall asleep, and feel nothing, and then wake up, and in that time, we didn’t exist—we died.
And so death is really, just that familiar.
Well, what do you think?
.
I think that it’s funny.
My relatives, they always point out my fairly long eyelashes and gush, “Oh my oh my, the girls must be just fighting for you with those eyelashes of yours!”
I have never heard anyone else ever say anything about my eyelashes.
My relatives, they always point out my fairly long eyelashes and gush, “Oh my oh my, the girls must be just fighting for you with those eyelashes of yours!”
I have never heard anyone else ever say anything about my eyelashes.
.
I’m one of those assholes who jumps when they spot a mistake in a book.
I’m one of those assholes who feels noble because they noticed something an editor overlooked.
I’m one of those assholes who circle these misspelled words, so every other person that reads the book notices them too.
I’m sorry.
I’m one of those assholes who feels noble because they noticed something an editor overlooked.
I’m one of those assholes who circle these misspelled words, so every other person that reads the book notices them too.
I’m sorry.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
.
(you should say this aloud. It sounds cool, methinks.)
My thoughts are bumblebees:
lazily loafing by in the breeze
mumbling and bumbling lethargically.
My thoughts are bumblebees:
lazily loafing by in the breeze
mumbling and bumbling lethargically.
Friday, June 19, 2009
.
I’m not one for tradition, but Pops, when you put a new faucet in...when you replace the faucet, the faucet we’ve had for centuries, the faucet that I grew up with...
well, it just makes me sad.
well, it just makes me sad.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
.
I am so lucky, because, well, I stumbled across this colony of ants the other day. I don’t even know what range to put them in, hundreds, thousands, millions--no, millions is too much. But what I did, I got down and put my ear, right over the little ant commotion. And what I heard, I don’t know, it was just lovely: this petite clamor from these ants all brushing up against each other; this wee bustle; and this miniature racket—you couldn’t hear that just walking normally.
Nope, you have to get on your hands and knees, and be still, and notice—a deafening noise exists down there. You just have to notice.
No clue why I wrote this, but, well, it was just…..neat.
Nope, you have to get on your hands and knees, and be still, and notice—a deafening noise exists down there. You just have to notice.
No clue why I wrote this, but, well, it was just…..neat.
.
shoot. I mean shit.
This morning, at the doctors, I passed a big bowl of candy at the reception desk, and there were some reeses cups that I had my eye on. I made a mental note to fill my pockets up with them on the way out, because I didn’t want that chocolaty taste in my mouth for the whole appointment. You know?
Well I just remembered about them now. Twelve hours too late. FML.
This morning, at the doctors, I passed a big bowl of candy at the reception desk, and there were some reeses cups that I had my eye on. I made a mental note to fill my pockets up with them on the way out, because I didn’t want that chocolaty taste in my mouth for the whole appointment. You know?
Well I just remembered about them now. Twelve hours too late. FML.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
.
Bagged groceries a few weekends ago for a fund-raiser type dealio.
Of course, weird situations ensued.
Here:
I would approach patrons that were digging in their wallet/purse at the check-out line and say to them, with all the right amount of flattery, “Would you like help bagging your groceries, ma’am/sir?”
And a couple times, this happened:
I get a response of a terse sentence, and a polite smile.
This could go either way, I feel, so I am forced to ask, “What was that?”
The second response is nothing but the same, and just as cryptic. I hear the word “Thanks” muttered, but I do not have enough contextual evidence to determine if it came from a “Oh, I can do it on my own, thanks” or a “Oh, sure, why not, thanks.”
And I am left, not wanting to be an asshole by asking for a third time if they would like assistance with their groceries, to instead just say, “Okay!” and smile, and then leave.
I then slowly get out a paper bag, get it all fixed up, all the while trying to pick up on any clues on to whether I am doing the opposite of what they asked for, or for some sign, like a smile, that will give me the go-ahead. Nothing. Eventually their groceries come down to where I am, and I am forced to make a decision to go through with the grocery-bagging process.
But while I do this, I swear, I just swear, that they are giving me nasty looks, and cursing me under their breaths for my debauchery and outright outlandish refusal to accept their simple “no.” Because, of course, they said “no” twice, quite clearly.
But nobody ever said anything to me.
And so I will never truly know if what these people said, was a “yes” or a “no.”
End story.
Of course, weird situations ensued.
Here:
I would approach patrons that were digging in their wallet/purse at the check-out line and say to them, with all the right amount of flattery, “Would you like help bagging your groceries, ma’am/sir?”
And a couple times, this happened:
I get a response of a terse sentence, and a polite smile.
This could go either way, I feel, so I am forced to ask, “What was that?”
The second response is nothing but the same, and just as cryptic. I hear the word “Thanks” muttered, but I do not have enough contextual evidence to determine if it came from a “Oh, I can do it on my own, thanks” or a “Oh, sure, why not, thanks.”
And I am left, not wanting to be an asshole by asking for a third time if they would like assistance with their groceries, to instead just say, “Okay!” and smile, and then leave.
I then slowly get out a paper bag, get it all fixed up, all the while trying to pick up on any clues on to whether I am doing the opposite of what they asked for, or for some sign, like a smile, that will give me the go-ahead. Nothing. Eventually their groceries come down to where I am, and I am forced to make a decision to go through with the grocery-bagging process.
But while I do this, I swear, I just swear, that they are giving me nasty looks, and cursing me under their breaths for my debauchery and outright outlandish refusal to accept their simple “no.” Because, of course, they said “no” twice, quite clearly.
But nobody ever said anything to me.
And so I will never truly know if what these people said, was a “yes” or a “no.”
End story.
well, I shrug my shoulders at this one, meh....
An Ode to a Loner
His arm will delicately
drape over the bedside,
a pencil in hand,
an afterthought.
And when he falls asleep, the pencil
will stagger for a moment
and wobble
and finally drop.
And he’ll use his phone as an alarm
and he’ll fall asleep.
And he won't know this, but
he’ll sleep forever
because nobody not a soul
will call.
An Ode to a Loner
His arm will delicately
drape over the bedside,
a pencil in hand,
an afterthought.
And when he falls asleep, the pencil
will stagger for a moment
and wobble
and finally drop.
And he’ll use his phone as an alarm
and he’ll fall asleep.
And he won't know this, but
he’ll sleep forever
because nobody not a soul
will call.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
.
Right now? Well, right now, I'm an optimist. I'm seeing the happy, you know? I'm not see that sad, or that dreaded angry. Nope, right now, I'm seeing, I'm seeing that good.
In baseball on, let's see, Sunday—that would two days ago—well, on that day, I tore up my knee. And now there's a hobble to my step and a good one inch diameter of pulpy, red flesh on my knee.
But here's where the happy, the good comes in.
You see, on these types of abrasions, pouring on hydrogen peroxide is a good idea. And though it stings like hell, yes, I did it, and I hardly noticed it. Because the instant that hydrogen peroxide touched my wound, it began fizzling this minuscule white foam. This fizzle, fizzle of sorts.
And it's sometimes those slightest of things—those fizzle, fizzles—that distract you from everything, that just, well, make you see the happy and the good..... and make you an optimist even when you're a fully pledged pessimist.
In baseball on, let's see, Sunday—that would two days ago—well, on that day, I tore up my knee. And now there's a hobble to my step and a good one inch diameter of pulpy, red flesh on my knee.
But here's where the happy, the good comes in.
You see, on these types of abrasions, pouring on hydrogen peroxide is a good idea. And though it stings like hell, yes, I did it, and I hardly noticed it. Because the instant that hydrogen peroxide touched my wound, it began fizzling this minuscule white foam. This fizzle, fizzle of sorts.
And it's sometimes those slightest of things—those fizzle, fizzles—that distract you from everything, that just, well, make you see the happy and the good..... and make you an optimist even when you're a fully pledged pessimist.
Monday, June 15, 2009
.
Background: a shitty fucking poem that I fucking hate. No fucking clue why I'm putting it up, other than it's the only thing I've written in a while.
Rekindled
I leave the table
having him nor me said
anything
except maybe pass
the rice, please,
thanks.
and the rest of the night:
the dull droning of
the clock, the television, my sighs
and watching his eyes
tirelessly:
a sparkle, a glint, anything, goddammit—
but nothing.
Later I fall asleep on the couch
all sprawled out,
a wreck.
But the next morning, I wake up
sunlight on my face
pillow under my head
blanket over my body
my book closed, on the ground, page marked—
things not there the night before.
Rekindled
I leave the table
having him nor me said
anything
except maybe pass
the rice, please,
thanks.
and the rest of the night:
the dull droning of
the clock, the television, my sighs
and watching his eyes
tirelessly:
a sparkle, a glint, anything, goddammit—
but nothing.
Later I fall asleep on the couch
all sprawled out,
a wreck.
But the next morning, I wake up
sunlight on my face
pillow under my head
blanket over my body
my book closed, on the ground, page marked—
things not there the night before.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
.
This comic in the newspaper today, these parents find cigarettes in this kid's room--the kid is like 20 now, he must have used the room when he was like 14...
Anyways, they get pissed off at the now 20-year old kid. For something the 14 year-old did.
I really don't get this, this makes no sense to me. The 20 year old is not, by any means, the same person as the 14 year old was. Yet the parents are still getting mad.
Just like how this comic makes me mad.
Anyways, they get pissed off at the now 20-year old kid. For something the 14 year-old did.
I really don't get this, this makes no sense to me. The 20 year old is not, by any means, the same person as the 14 year old was. Yet the parents are still getting mad.
Just like how this comic makes me mad.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
.
On the neighbor’s lawn that I mow, huge mounds of anthills sometimes sprout up. And I like them, because my imagination then has a chance to have fun. Here:
I picture everytime that I mow, for the ants in these colonies, it is hurricane season. Or else the apocalypse. Or else the storm of the century, because ants’ lives are pretty short. Yeah, the last one seems the most plausible.
Anyways, I say this, because often I just mow right over the mounds, and all of the sand just jets out of the department that the grass jets out of. I don’t like completely ravaging their homes, but I am kinda forced to. But I picture the ants’ looking up at the huge approaching lawn mower, faces melting into horror, screaming their little heads off. Ahhh!!
And then I look back a few paces after the mound and say, “ouch, quite the storm this century.”
It’s kinda cool, though, looking up in the sky and imagining a huge mower, belonging to some more advanced species than us, trimming all of the trees down. Mowing their lawns.
I picture everytime that I mow, for the ants in these colonies, it is hurricane season. Or else the apocalypse. Or else the storm of the century, because ants’ lives are pretty short. Yeah, the last one seems the most plausible.
Anyways, I say this, because often I just mow right over the mounds, and all of the sand just jets out of the department that the grass jets out of. I don’t like completely ravaging their homes, but I am kinda forced to. But I picture the ants’ looking up at the huge approaching lawn mower, faces melting into horror, screaming their little heads off. Ahhh!!
And then I look back a few paces after the mound and say, “ouch, quite the storm this century.”
It’s kinda cool, though, looking up in the sky and imagining a huge mower, belonging to some more advanced species than us, trimming all of the trees down. Mowing their lawns.
.
I just ate this sandwich. It was pretty good. Afterward, though, it felt like, way in the back of my mouth, there was some piece of bread that was stuck. I kept trying to tongue it out, but finally I felt my finger back there, and it was some canker-sore thing.
And I'm just wondering.... did this canker-sore magically sprout up right after I ate this sandwich? Was this sandwich a "canker-sore-wielding-formula"? Because I most certainly did not feel it before...and I'm just wondering how in the hell it got there.
And I'm just wondering.... did this canker-sore magically sprout up right after I ate this sandwich? Was this sandwich a "canker-sore-wielding-formula"? Because I most certainly did not feel it before...and I'm just wondering how in the hell it got there.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
About a mile down the road, a firetruck, sirens yelping, barreled by.
So, just got back from arm therapy. Drive home, I noticed car way ahead stopped on side of the road, near a church. Thought, oh, just some people from the church, putting up signs, maybe.
I approached, and the car ahead of me slowed way the hell down. Forced to slow down myself, and then warily drive by. Turns out it wasn't people putting up signs; actually, it was a bunch of kids--I didn't see them crying; they were all huddled up, an adult talking to them. They were calm--and a lady on the ground next to the car, howling in agony, with people huddled over her. I could hear through my closed doors. Howling.
I saw another car, airbags out; but I didn't see any wreckage, no sign of an accident, other than the lady howling on the ground with people huddled over her. (The people too, were calm. They were too calm. It didn't make sense.) The car in front of me, it pulled off to the side of the road, and a lady sprinted out, running towards the scene. I pulled over right after this, wondering what the hell I should do. There were plenty of people at the scene. And then I saw a car or two continue on, so I finally did the same.
I felt cold. Shivery.
I drove the rest of the way home very, very slowly. I kept looking at all the cars and thinking how the people in them didn't know but an accident, with someone seriously hurt, someone howling on the ground, immobile, was just a block away from them. Right over there! That street! Right there, there's an accident, but you'll never know, because you aren't even going that way.
About a mile down the road, a firetruck, sirens yelping, barreled by me.
I still feel pressure in my head from witnessing this.
I approached, and the car ahead of me slowed way the hell down. Forced to slow down myself, and then warily drive by. Turns out it wasn't people putting up signs; actually, it was a bunch of kids--I didn't see them crying; they were all huddled up, an adult talking to them. They were calm--and a lady on the ground next to the car, howling in agony, with people huddled over her. I could hear through my closed doors. Howling.
I saw another car, airbags out; but I didn't see any wreckage, no sign of an accident, other than the lady howling on the ground with people huddled over her. (The people too, were calm. They were too calm. It didn't make sense.) The car in front of me, it pulled off to the side of the road, and a lady sprinted out, running towards the scene. I pulled over right after this, wondering what the hell I should do. There were plenty of people at the scene. And then I saw a car or two continue on, so I finally did the same.
I felt cold. Shivery.
I drove the rest of the way home very, very slowly. I kept looking at all the cars and thinking how the people in them didn't know but an accident, with someone seriously hurt, someone howling on the ground, immobile, was just a block away from them. Right over there! That street! Right there, there's an accident, but you'll never know, because you aren't even going that way.
About a mile down the road, a firetruck, sirens yelping, barreled by me.
I still feel pressure in my head from witnessing this.
I just don't quite get why people get so giddy about meeting famous people. Maybe it's a dysfunction within me; but I see famous people as people. I mean, were I to meet my heroes-- I seriously wouldn't get to worked up about it. It'd be no different than meeting an average Joe. (At least I think.)
The same goes for autographs. How can autographs hold any meaning behind them? I don't get it. They are horseshit to me... they are ink on paper, nothing more.
Although maybe it's just that I'm unfeeling, and can't see the significance in things.
The same goes for autographs. How can autographs hold any meaning behind them? I don't get it. They are horseshit to me... they are ink on paper, nothing more.
Although maybe it's just that I'm unfeeling, and can't see the significance in things.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
.
I just woke up. From a dream.
I feel rested now, but nevertheless, I feel restless.
Because in my dream, in it I was writing; I was composing a piece, and in it, I had a smile on my face: this is a piece is great, I said to myself, this is great because you are implying things; you are showing and not telling. You are involving the reader; you are offering a couple incidences and you are beautifully tying them together, all implicitly. You did it!
But I woke up soon after this "You did it!" part, and promptly aggravated; it was all just a dream. And now, from this dream, I had no paper, no pencil, and absolutely nothing written down. So I got up, not willing to get some paper, a pencil, and try to repeat the writing process, and then went about my way.
But a real writer, he would have gotten that paper, that pencil, and he would have tried to repeat that writing process. He would have strained to get that dream down, even if it resulted in something from the ol’ noggin bursting. He would have strained, because that’s his job.
Which gave me a sad realization: I ain’t no real writer.
Even though, a few seconds after I woke up, I realized the dream was complete twaddle—that doesn’t matter. No, a real writer would have gotten something out of this dream.
I feel rested now, but nevertheless, I feel restless.
Because in my dream, in it I was writing; I was composing a piece, and in it, I had a smile on my face: this is a piece is great, I said to myself, this is great because you are implying things; you are showing and not telling. You are involving the reader; you are offering a couple incidences and you are beautifully tying them together, all implicitly. You did it!
But I woke up soon after this "You did it!" part, and promptly aggravated; it was all just a dream. And now, from this dream, I had no paper, no pencil, and absolutely nothing written down. So I got up, not willing to get some paper, a pencil, and try to repeat the writing process, and then went about my way.
But a real writer, he would have gotten that paper, that pencil, and he would have tried to repeat that writing process. He would have strained to get that dream down, even if it resulted in something from the ol’ noggin bursting. He would have strained, because that’s his job.
Which gave me a sad realization: I ain’t no real writer.
Even though, a few seconds after I woke up, I realized the dream was complete twaddle—that doesn’t matter. No, a real writer would have gotten something out of this dream.
embarrass
I realized a while ago that the word "embarrass" has "bare ass" in it.
It self-describes its meaning, in other words.
Like an onomatopoeia, kind of.
And holy hell, onomatopoeia has four vowels in a row.
Scary.
It self-describes its meaning, in other words.
Like an onomatopoeia, kind of.
And holy hell, onomatopoeia has four vowels in a row.
Scary.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Noah, I'm putting this up because I thought it was quite funny and wanted a record of it.
young person #1: Old people are funny!
young person #2: Old people are dead.
#1: Uhhh, not yet....
#2: PHREEEEEEWWWWW. OKAY!!!!!!! (looks at clock for 10 seconds) Now they're dead!!! Happy??
#1: Ohh.
Actually, I feel like this is rather mean and prejudice.
young person #1: Old people are funny!
young person #2: Old people are dead.
#1: Uhhh, not yet....
#2: PHREEEEEEWWWWW. OKAY!!!!!!! (looks at clock for 10 seconds) Now they're dead!!! Happy??
#1: Ohh.
Actually, I feel like this is rather mean and prejudice.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
rocks
Younger Trevor:
You used to pick up rocks, draw faces on them, and then play with 'em.
I'm jealous of you.
You used to pick up rocks, draw faces on them, and then play with 'em.
I'm jealous of you.
Ok, so lately...... the "hawt"—I spell this with a very sardonic twang—the "hawt" girls of my school, the girls that every guy "in one second would do unspeakable things to," the femme fatales (and then we'll go ahead and toss the celebrities in there even: the jessica alba's, the angelina jolies, the-i-don't-know-enough-celebrities-for-this-list-to-go-on).......
well, I used to get caught up by all these people, but lately, they have had no effect on me. They do not attract me more than the average girl. And it's odd, because for seemingly everyone else, it's the total opposite... and I used to be like everyone else.
But now, well, it just feels very, liberating.
well, I used to get caught up by all these people, but lately, they have had no effect on me. They do not attract me more than the average girl. And it's odd, because for seemingly everyone else, it's the total opposite... and I used to be like everyone else.
But now, well, it just feels very, liberating.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
It really bothers me when people audibly chomp on mashed potatoes.
Like you don't know how pissed off I get. I clench my fists and grind my teeth, and I have to literally hold myself down so that I don't wildly jump up and throw my fists onto the table and scream, "GODDAMMIT!!" along with numerous other obscenities.
The forks, too; I have to sit on my hands, usually, so that I don't inflict any radical violence on the potato-muncher with the forks. Because those forks are sharp, and surely can pierce skin.
Like you don't know how pissed off I get. I clench my fists and grind my teeth, and I have to literally hold myself down so that I don't wildly jump up and throw my fists onto the table and scream, "GODDAMMIT!!" along with numerous other obscenities.
The forks, too; I have to sit on my hands, usually, so that I don't inflict any radical violence on the potato-muncher with the forks. Because those forks are sharp, and surely can pierce skin.
Monday, June 1, 2009
okay, okay, okay, I think this situation is hilarious. It's only like 30 seconds long, but oh well, you know?
Okay, let's say we are at a bank. Yes, a bank, I think, and some guy goes up to the teller. The bank teller--she's a lady--she says, "Hi, how are you doing," and the man, he looks a bit stern, with a black mustache, yeah, a tiny black mustache, the man responds, "Morning."
The bank teller's eyes crumple--not much, but just a bit--and she politely says, "Uhm, excuse me?"
---------------No, no, no, wait, actually I'm going to change this to a pharmacy. Yes, a pharmacy would be much, much better. So the bank teller is the pharmacist, and the man, well, he's still the man whose a bit stern and who has a tiny, black mustache---------------
So where are we at, yes, a man comes in to a pharmacy, the pharmacist says "Hi, how are you doing," the man replies, "Morning," and the pharmacist says, "Uhm, excuse me?"
Yes, so then the stern man just reiterates: "Morning."
Suddenly, the camera pans away--obviously it is from the pharmacist's viewpoint we are looking at--and the camera pans away and first looks out the window: the sun is on its way down, and cars are all rumbling to get home; then the camera looks at the clock: it's a few ticks away from 5 o'clock; then it looks back at the stern man with the tiny, black mustache, and the pharmacist says, "huh??"
"Morning. Jason, Morning."
.....an uncomfortable silence, then the pharmacist smiles:
"Oh."
She goes and gets his prescription, smiles again, and hands it to him. "There you go," and the stern man with the tiny black mustache nods his head and leaves with the bag.
Okay, let's say we are at a bank. Yes, a bank, I think, and some guy goes up to the teller. The bank teller--she's a lady--she says, "Hi, how are you doing," and the man, he looks a bit stern, with a black mustache, yeah, a tiny black mustache, the man responds, "Morning."
The bank teller's eyes crumple--not much, but just a bit--and she politely says, "Uhm, excuse me?"
---------------No, no, no, wait, actually I'm going to change this to a pharmacy. Yes, a pharmacy would be much, much better. So the bank teller is the pharmacist, and the man, well, he's still the man whose a bit stern and who has a tiny, black mustache---------------
So where are we at, yes, a man comes in to a pharmacy, the pharmacist says "Hi, how are you doing," the man replies, "Morning," and the pharmacist says, "Uhm, excuse me?"
Yes, so then the stern man just reiterates: "Morning."
Suddenly, the camera pans away--obviously it is from the pharmacist's viewpoint we are looking at--and the camera pans away and first looks out the window: the sun is on its way down, and cars are all rumbling to get home; then the camera looks at the clock: it's a few ticks away from 5 o'clock; then it looks back at the stern man with the tiny, black mustache, and the pharmacist says, "huh??"
"Morning. Jason, Morning."
.....an uncomfortable silence, then the pharmacist smiles:
"Oh."
She goes and gets his prescription, smiles again, and hands it to him. "There you go," and the stern man with the tiny black mustache nods his head and leaves with the bag.
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