January 16, 2014

Writing Style Attempt: Second person continued…

 

Whitney has never once complained about the fact that when people meet him in person they are startled and more often than not visibly disappointed that he is not female. His lax attitude towards social prejudices such as this has always infuriated and intrigued you. You, who throws a match into your mental fire anytime someone’s glance or vocal implies they are considering you height either way.

 

When you get to Whitney’s floor Brandie (Why must she spell it this way?) looks up and tells you he is not here. You consider making some small time excuse about just passing by or wanting to see how she is doing but you’d both know it was bullshit so you half smirk and half sigh and forget to ask when he will be or where he is.

 

Brandie does this to you. Many women do this to you. Every time this happens, you remind yourself that it may have started out with gender but as time has told, it truly is not so. You are the same. You just carry a terminal disease called disconnect. It is hard for you to explain but you feel like you could draw it on a piece of scrap paper. And if you did, it would be described as such:

Two people with tin cans connected by string.

The person on the dominant (left – because we read from this) side is pressing their mouth to the cavity of their can in full expectation that their voice will be the pre-imminent vibration that begins the conversation. But on the other side of the canvas is a hunched curmudgeon the you, the supposed receiver. Bow backed and sensation heavy – you do not have the rim of your own can to either you mouth or your ear – instead you hold it to your left eye body frozen staring down its barrel. You observe. You do not listen. You do not speak. You watch.   

-I hope you are following along...I sure am

ClassyB