Note: Just to be safe... only the story is mine, the characters aren't.
Let's hope CC likes to share.
The Logical Discord of DKS
A constant aching, ever present, haunts and poisons every ordinarily joy- filled event or task. Wishing I could cry, I manage to reduce it to a pathetic pucker, standing amidst roars of glee and pert cheers directed towards the blaring television set. "What's wrong?" someone asks me. A tired, motherly woman I might have once answered with blind faith and honesty, knowing that I will never see her again. No more. What's wrong? Who the hell cares? No one I know. Being a (others don't agree with me) self-centered bitch, I just find wallowing in my unjustified misery quite an amusing activity, how's that for a fucking answer? And so my pain, the source of which I do not know, continues clawing at the confining walls of my petite (how many times has that been thrown in my face?) frame. You'd never guess it if you saw me. At times it breaks the inner wall of me, letting a faint trickle of a reason escape for one fleeting moment. This soon passes. People bawl when they are rejected by their lovers. They cry their eyes out for the sake of some argument. I envy those men that have purpose. Myself- I feel silly, weeping for and because of I know not what, all the while attempting to mask this, one of my many faults, by screaming at the top of my lungs, "Fuck the world!" when it is I, the wretched host, who is to blame- for my sheer stupidity. You disagree with me? Well fuck you!
I apologize, I got a bit sidetracked there. Speaking of apologies, I have tried to keep count of how many I have made within the last hour. It didn't work. I am yet sane enough, and adequately conscious of my surroundings, to see that my presence benefits no one in this friendly, open joint. Outside of work, that is. Is that what my essence has been reduced to? A job? MY job, yes, but a job nonetheless. I find myself disgusted at me for my feelings on the subject. Disgusted about my feelings. An oxymoron. Dang, I'm really scaring myself now. The only time I feel the slightest bit useful, the slightest bit (this may be an exaggeration, but what the hell) happy, is when I work. I find fulfillment in chasing after these ghostly conspiracies and alien beings with my partner, and find purpose in even failure on this forte.
Sitting now on this bar stool, my legs dangling roughly half a yard from the tiled floor, I down my sixth drink. I haven't the slightest idea of what it is. It burns its way down my throat and that seems to satiate my doubt. The floor, I noticed a little while ago, still reeks of vomit and urine, under the stench of some lemon-piney cleaner. A blurred image flashes through my mind now, my own explanation for that lovely (that's sarcasm-I'm not that drunk. yet) perfume of body fluids being more dramatic and yes, even sexier than what I know must have happened. Somehow I imagine this brawl the result of a brutal attack (by an unattractive yet undoubtedly strong drunk)on the noble principles and honorable actions of the misunderstood (and for some reason sober) hero.
As a young woman in school and the Academy I have had similar fantasies involving my Mr. Right. Don't get me wrong- most of the time I stepped in at one point in time and helped beat the crap out of the 'bad guy.' But at times, like this one, it was just my love and some revolting antagonist. In those past times, though, both Mr. Perfect (though I had unconsciously established that he was unbelievably handsome) and the bad guy were faceless. They had bodies, and words came from them, but from no mouths of theirs. They didn't even have hair. Just a head (with somewhat of a faint profile) entirely of the same toned skin.
These fantasies have never left me. As I aged the plot would twist a little more in each situation, and the body growing sleeker as my horizons expanded in the pleasurable field of asses. His manner, stride, and looks now remind me of Mulder. Not that it is Mulder. My annoyingly, twisted intelligent partner of less than a year specializes in being a pain in the ass 24/7. The face is still nonexistent, but now I see the hair. Dark, neatly trimmed, well kept in general. Another similarity. This shall we say evolved Mr. Right has seemed always an eternity away from me, wherever I happen to be.
Banging my glass down and tossing some bills down onto the cluttered surface, I half-slide, half-hop down onto my feet. Stumbling to the what I hope turns out to be shorter stool on the makeshift "stage" with the microphone standing before it, I somehow convince someone (you expect me to know these details at this stage in my medicinal drinking?!?) that I'm not that tipsy, and as it's karaoke night, I want my turn. I'm not sure what song it is, or whether I will even know the lyrics, but as the "melody" starts up, I squeal them out without thinking. But I find that I can't think not because I know the words so well, but because I literally seem to have been robbed of that capacity. "And every time I scratch my nails down someone else's back I hope you feel it!" I "sing" the words with an unintended emotion, directing them at my Mr. Right, the bastard. And I continue to sit upon the it-turns-out-taller stool, singing to the now practically deserted bar of I know not what.
The music has stopped. I think it's been stopped for a while now. But I can't tell, The silence gives me, sweating up there under the harsh light, reason. And I start to mumble. The silence is what I despise, what is now causing me my pain. What I don't know, what is being kept from me. This I hate. Unbeknownst to me Mulder had come into the bar while I was giving my little "performance" and was now, concerned, at my side. I hear him ask me, demanding to know, am I drunk? Am I okay? This time, I decide to let him have the truth that he wants out of me. Instead of the expected "I'm fine, Mulder," I growl out at the arrogant SOB standing at my side, "Fuck you."
The Logical Discord of DKS
A constant aching, ever present, haunts and poisons every ordinarily joy- filled event or task. Wishing I could cry, I manage to reduce it to a pathetic pucker, standing amidst roars of glee and pert cheers directed towards the blaring television set. "What's wrong?" someone asks me. A tired, motherly woman I might have once answered with blind faith and honesty, knowing that I will never see her again. No more. What's wrong? Who the hell cares? No one I know. Being a (others don't agree with me) self-centered bitch, I just find wallowing in my unjustified misery quite an amusing activity, how's that for a fucking answer? And so my pain, the source of which I do not know, continues clawing at the confining walls of my petite (how many times has that been thrown in my face?) frame. You'd never guess it if you saw me. At times it breaks the inner wall of me, letting a faint trickle of a reason escape for one fleeting moment. This soon passes. People bawl when they are rejected by their lovers. They cry their eyes out for the sake of some argument. I envy those men that have purpose. Myself- I feel silly, weeping for and because of I know not what, all the while attempting to mask this, one of my many faults, by screaming at the top of my lungs, "Fuck the world!" when it is I, the wretched host, who is to blame- for my sheer stupidity. You disagree with me? Well fuck you!
I apologize, I got a bit sidetracked there. Speaking of apologies, I have tried to keep count of how many I have made within the last hour. It didn't work. I am yet sane enough, and adequately conscious of my surroundings, to see that my presence benefits no one in this friendly, open joint. Outside of work, that is. Is that what my essence has been reduced to? A job? MY job, yes, but a job nonetheless. I find myself disgusted at me for my feelings on the subject. Disgusted about my feelings. An oxymoron. Dang, I'm really scaring myself now. The only time I feel the slightest bit useful, the slightest bit (this may be an exaggeration, but what the hell) happy, is when I work. I find fulfillment in chasing after these ghostly conspiracies and alien beings with my partner, and find purpose in even failure on this forte.
Sitting now on this bar stool, my legs dangling roughly half a yard from the tiled floor, I down my sixth drink. I haven't the slightest idea of what it is. It burns its way down my throat and that seems to satiate my doubt. The floor, I noticed a little while ago, still reeks of vomit and urine, under the stench of some lemon-piney cleaner. A blurred image flashes through my mind now, my own explanation for that lovely (that's sarcasm-I'm not that drunk. yet) perfume of body fluids being more dramatic and yes, even sexier than what I know must have happened. Somehow I imagine this brawl the result of a brutal attack (by an unattractive yet undoubtedly strong drunk)on the noble principles and honorable actions of the misunderstood (and for some reason sober) hero.
As a young woman in school and the Academy I have had similar fantasies involving my Mr. Right. Don't get me wrong- most of the time I stepped in at one point in time and helped beat the crap out of the 'bad guy.' But at times, like this one, it was just my love and some revolting antagonist. In those past times, though, both Mr. Perfect (though I had unconsciously established that he was unbelievably handsome) and the bad guy were faceless. They had bodies, and words came from them, but from no mouths of theirs. They didn't even have hair. Just a head (with somewhat of a faint profile) entirely of the same toned skin.
These fantasies have never left me. As I aged the plot would twist a little more in each situation, and the body growing sleeker as my horizons expanded in the pleasurable field of asses. His manner, stride, and looks now remind me of Mulder. Not that it is Mulder. My annoyingly, twisted intelligent partner of less than a year specializes in being a pain in the ass 24/7. The face is still nonexistent, but now I see the hair. Dark, neatly trimmed, well kept in general. Another similarity. This shall we say evolved Mr. Right has seemed always an eternity away from me, wherever I happen to be.
Banging my glass down and tossing some bills down onto the cluttered surface, I half-slide, half-hop down onto my feet. Stumbling to the what I hope turns out to be shorter stool on the makeshift "stage" with the microphone standing before it, I somehow convince someone (you expect me to know these details at this stage in my medicinal drinking?!?) that I'm not that tipsy, and as it's karaoke night, I want my turn. I'm not sure what song it is, or whether I will even know the lyrics, but as the "melody" starts up, I squeal them out without thinking. But I find that I can't think not because I know the words so well, but because I literally seem to have been robbed of that capacity. "And every time I scratch my nails down someone else's back I hope you feel it!" I "sing" the words with an unintended emotion, directing them at my Mr. Right, the bastard. And I continue to sit upon the it-turns-out-taller stool, singing to the now practically deserted bar of I know not what.
The music has stopped. I think it's been stopped for a while now. But I can't tell, The silence gives me, sweating up there under the harsh light, reason. And I start to mumble. The silence is what I despise, what is now causing me my pain. What I don't know, what is being kept from me. This I hate. Unbeknownst to me Mulder had come into the bar while I was giving my little "performance" and was now, concerned, at my side. I hear him ask me, demanding to know, am I drunk? Am I okay? This time, I decide to let him have the truth that he wants out of me. Instead of the expected "I'm fine, Mulder," I growl out at the arrogant SOB standing at my side, "Fuck you."