Kyle woke up at 4 P.M. yesterday. I had gone to 4 classes and had 2 tests by the time he stumbled out of his hellish mess of blankets and despair, bringing to mind a discussion we had last week:
Kyle's cell phone alarm went off sometime in the evening as a reminder to do laundry, eliciting the response, "God I hate that alarm!"
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I used to set it as my alarm in the morning."
Kyle went on to reveal to me that any form of auditory stimulation used for rousing him from bed becomes a target of his hatred. He used to set his C.D. player as an alarm, but he began to hate the first couple of tracks on every single album that would play in the morning. This reveals an innate hatred of morning in Kyle, a hatred which is so deeply set that it finds reason to pit itself against the most potent display of emotion known to man--music. But then, Kyle knows nothing of emotion. He is a ruthless automaton with no feelings, and even less of a soul. But perhaps that's the way he wants it. I just know better than to try to awaken him from his cold, uncaring slumber. Then he'll hate me almost as much as I hate him.
7 comments:
Although your post about the innermost workings of my soul is once again flattering, I must inform you that your assumption as to the focus of my hatred is misguided. There is little room for hatred in any single aspect of my life, because every hateful fibre of my being is directed towards you. Once again I say to you, Jackass, don't fear the reaper. End your life, and in doing so enrichen mine.
How pleasant.
Is "enrichen" a word?
No, and he spelled "fiber" the British way.
I love the British way.
Justin - I think you should use THIS picture for something. Do you have it yet?
Or THIS one. Either one. You pick. I like the hat, by the way.
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