Graphic Journal: March 10th

10 Mar

He acted in the terms of seconds; the seconds that it took the blood to burst in his mouth like a dime falling into the slot machine.  There wasn’t so much a time limit anymore.  It was more like a race against himself.  He timed and timed and timed himself seeing if he could make it go faster; make the treadmill of life go fast.

He was out of breath but breathlessly dreaming of whispered song lyrics.  He pushed himself further than a cheetah’s duration of maintaining its 60 mph speed.  Where or what was this leading to?  Where or what could he go?

He realized it was frivolous to count this as real work.  Sure, his body broke things down and used up calories, but he really couldn’t spot this within himself.  It wasn’t like he could find a life-sized replica seized from a department store of himself; a life-size replica he could open the sternum up with a hammer and peel back the layers like all of the discarded wrapping paper thrown away at thousands of homes the day after Christmas.

He thought that it would be rather neat to find a life-size replica of himself.  It would probably be even more tremendous if it was living.  What would he do?  Probably the only natural thing to do, he figured: watch it ejaculate.

Would it be considered his mess or the replica’s?

He kept on pushing his legs forward and then retracting them backward.  One muscle gave, the other muscle took.  It was a process much akin to his childhood.  While breathing heavily in a contradicted state with a natural disaster concocting in his pancreas and a simulated television program about child rapists.

He blinked.

How many times had he blinked?

How many times had he counted the tiles on the ceiling while blinking?

He looked back and around the setting.  A girl here, a guy there.  Fairly inconsequential viewing behaviors coalesced inside his brain like two trains meeting on separate tracks.  Watching a girl watch a guy watch other people.  He checked out both of their asses and compared.  His lap grew a little.

Focusing back on the present task at hand, he became impatient.  Really, was fifteen minutes supposed to take a Bob Seger, CCR, and Eagles song?  He figured they might as well throw in a Journey for the mix.  It wasn’t like they were copy and pasted from other stations.

He thought about flying to Australia.  He thought about flying.  He thought about other people thinking about flying.  He thought about one muscle giving and the other muscle taking.  He thought about life.  He thought about his hard on.  He thought about that one girl from that one time that he did that one thing with.  He thought about the friend that was a bitch but still sort of valuable despite hating the word bitch.

He kept pedaling.

This would probably be the last time he went to the gym for awhile.


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