mood: self-destructive music: 'sour times' by portishead

there once was a boy. he was a beautiful child, handsome in every physical aspect. he had a habit, though. he was an extreme perfectionist, especially in regards to his outward image. he felt he wasn't perfect enough to bare his own visage to the world, and this drove him crazy. he wanted, he needed to be perfect. so he spent his days in the darkness hiding himself away from the world. he cried when he was sad, he ate when he was hungry, he laughed when he was happy, though that wasn't very often. this went on for years.

soon enough, the handsome young boy had grown into handsome young man. and with the increase of age, he became just a bit wiser. regardless of how little he grew in wisdom, it was enough. he realized something needed to change. he wanted, he needed the change. but in his own eyes he was still imperfect. and so he toiled and toiled, and after working day and night for innumerable days and nights, he emerged from the darkness with a temporary solution. the man had created a mask from some sort of heavy metal. the mask bore what the man felt was perfection. and although the mask was extremely heavy and stifled his breathing, although it was large and impractical and distorted the sound of his words, the man embraced his mask. he took it off only once company had left his presence.

after a while, though, the man started to grow tired of wearing the bulky mask, but still persisted saying to himself, 'no one wants to see the imperfection that is my face.' by this time the man had friends; some of them were fans of him, most were fans of the mask. one day after a typical conversation with his friend, the man started to realize horrible truths. no one can ever fathom exactly how he felt. a suddenly gurgle and quake in the pit of his stomach signaled the impending upheaval. he quickly bid adieu to his friend in a rather calm manner and started off towards his home. as soon as he was far enough out of sight, he threw off his mask and vomited at the side of the street. the mask clanged to the asphalt, but remained intacted due to its solid construction. after he was done, the man wiped his lips clean with the back of his hand. and said to himself:

sometimes i feel like the world is a big psychological experiment. that there's someone somewhere pushing buttons and triggering things to see how i react. then they write the information down on a generic sheet of paper that gets put into a generic file that belongs to a generic file cabinet that's part of a collection of useless information that no one ever accesses. i mean, why would it be accessed? how significant is everything i'm experiencing anyhow? it can't be that important to anyone other than me.

then, picking up his mask, he puts it back on. his breath still smells of vomit and the pungent stink seems to resonate within the metal-forged walls of the mask. still, though, the mask looks pretty.

---Goei---