A wee character study

In a mixture of boredom and lack of proper sleep, I found myself creating word doodles beside my regular old graphic doodles at last week's convention. My goal was to create a mental image that was crisp, succint and evocative. This is in no way related to anything or anyone in my life. It's more of a character study.

See, I've come to realize that one of my biggest issues with writing is the pressure I put on myself to create something complete, as though it could emerge, fully-formed from my mind (nice little classical mythology reference in there for you. You're welcome.) Of course, having fully-formed anything is a challenge, let alone a fully-formed masterpiece of writing. So I'm taking it upon myself to cobble together bits and pieces of writing as they come to me, compile them, and save them for future dates when they can be assembled to make my very own literary Frankenstein.

There is no real setting or plot development. This is a descriptive paragraph. We're just assuming in medias res and hoping for the best. oh, and one more thing before I begin: this is a first for me, this sharing of creative writing talents. I've never displayed my poetry or shared any short stories. Ever. My shared writing is strictly non-fiction and usually critiques, analyses or incorporates secondary research or another's writing. So from nothing, here is something. My brain baby--ugly, swollen and bleating its way into the world.

I won't say enjoy, as you aren't required to. In fact, if you don't enjoy it, please feel free to tell me. Your role is to witness. To read and give meaning to the words by interpolating them in your own mind. Thanks in advance.

Ew.

With one quick glance it is apparent that his douche nozzle is turned on full blast. The hose sprays a fine mist of arrogant machismo that is carried, weightless, and deposited in small droplets on unsuspecting bystanders. Covered in a film of creepy discomfort, they shiver--trying to shake off the offending particles. Cloying, sticky particles. Spicy, but not alluring or exotic. Spice that stings the nostrils and forces tongues to the roofs of mouths in an effort to plug the stench from entering their throats. Not dirty--in fact, quite the opposite. Clean, but not soapy clean. Clean and overly perfumed, as if the various concoctions on a drugstore shelf have found their way into a horrible, stagnant witch's brew. The lotions and creams have left his skin gleaming with an oily slick. Their foul odor leads passers-by to offer a wide berth, their actions completely missed by the narcissist at its centre. Missing among his myriad potions, apparently, is an astringent, for underneath his skin's superficial glow are thousands of misshapen craters, dutifully spackled in an attempt to camouflage the unhealthy texture of his cheekbones. The monochromatic finish his facepaint supplies creeps from his throat up to his receding hairline. Even the faint shadow of artful stubble on his chin betrays blunt, foundation-smeared follicles. The other hairs on his head stand at attention, resistant to gale-force winds thanks to the liberal application of a product best described as the green mucus coughed up by a particularly phlegmy consumptive. His grin is a self-satisfied sneer, as if, aware of his grotesquerie, he is daring those around him to say something about his offensiveness.

As he stands regarding the world with dumb cruelty, he sees me standing awkwardly several paces away. Shit. There's no getting out of this now. This is the last, I repeat last, time I allow myself to be fixed up by an Internet dating service. At the very least, I'm getting my money back. And if this dickbag even thinks about invading my personal space, he's getting a faceful of half-inch gel nails. I quickly curse myself for spending twenty bucks on getting my nails done for this asshole.

He approaches. A wave of nausea flips my guts, and I bite my lip to contain it.

"Hey. Drink?"

"Please."