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2013 exit interview

31 Dec

Me: Hello, I’m your host, Daniel, and welcome to the interview with the well-known 2013. Of course, tonight’s his last night before he croaks, er, like a healthy young frog.

2013: I’m going to be reduced to some hazy bits of memories in only about four hours.

Me: Well, well. Looks who sees the glass half-full. That’s pretty much what you were most of this year. Look on WordPress under the tag 2014 and some people wrote some unflattering things about you. Sorry to say, but you weren’t that great of a year to begin with.

2013: Wait, what do you based your assumption on?

Me: A fact actually…the fact that you’re a prime number.

2013: What does that have to do with anything?

Me: You’re a stubborn year that can’t be neatly divided by any pleasant number, like two, four, or even five.

2013: Well what about 2011?

Me: I like eleven, it’s a nice number. Two beautiful parallel lines. But thirteen? You really need some PR help to get people to like you. I don’t think it helps that you have a black cat and live under a ladder. You could also lose the fat on those two bumps if you want to be beautiful like eleven.

2013: What the…what’s wrong with having a black cat and live under a ladder? (And I like my figure as it is.)

Me: You are guilty (and superstitious) by association.

2013: You’re being absurd.

Me: Prime numbers are absurd. And it’s even more sad that…you’re past your prime.

[Beat]

2013: Really?

Me: Pun justified by the fact how true it is. Any last thoughts you would like to say?

2013: I’m proud to be a prime number.

Me: Sure, okay, whatever you say. Anyways get off the chair. You’re taking up too much blogtime.

2013: What, wait a minute-

[2013 is being manhandled and pulled off stage by two burly alphabets, A and Z.]

Me: So long 2013. May you live in our deep recesses of our minds and scrapbooks. And now let’s welcome 2014 onto the stage.

[A figure walks in.]

Me: What the…you’re not supposed to be here yet!

2020: I can’t help myself because every time you reflect on the past year, hindsight is always vibrant. Well, see you personally in six years!

overdone detailed fiction drivel

9 Jul

If I tried to write a story and you got to see it being formed in my mind, it might turn out something like this…

*

Sean parked his car in the parking lot. It was a red Honda Civic. Actually, it was not exactly red, but crimson red pearl according to the Honda dealership that was exactly 32.522 miles away from where Sean was when he parked his car. (The manager running the successful enterprise has a name, Tom.) The odometer read 20,432 miles, the left taillight was out, and there were some white bits of pigeon poop across the windshield.

Oh, and Sean. Seriously, who do you, dear reader, think Sean was the past three sentences? Was it just some human-size question mark hovering until the author described him, or did you think of him as a tall, mysterious man with a frown visceral as a dark and stormy night? Or a femme fatale who was disguised as a businessman so she can infiltrate a booze cartel and take it down inside out? (Also, a time-traveler from the Prohibition Era who still thought alcohol was illegal.) Of course, being the author of this short blog entry that consists of semi-sensible drivel to make a point of how difficult it can be to write a story without having a porridge that is not too hot to eat or a bed mattress too soft to sleep on, he decided that Sean is just an Asian-American male in his mid twenties.

Of course, the name Sean reminds this author of his friend he had back in high school. Back-then Sean was short, about five feet and two inches. And Asian-American. He was quite a talented student who played the violin well and aced his classes; the author every now and then would be jealous of him. The author hopes back-then Sean, who is probably grown to be today Sean, is not reading this blog.

So it should be reminded that Sean is a fictional construct, a figment of the imagination, the consensual collective delusion, and any similarities to back-then Sean or the author are really just a coincidence. Wait, was that already assumed by the dear reader? The author is now confused, frustrated and constipated.

And don’t get him started on describing Tom.