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Describe yourself* and current surroundings, as they are right now, in the third person.
* By yourself, I mean your appearance and demeanour. You may speculate on what your own thoughts and emotions might be, based only on what a third person might quess (by what he/she sees of you).
I will start . . .
It is midday. Zeuhb sits cross-legged on the floor, crouched over his laptop. He looks pale and unwashed; his beard scruffy, uncombed and curled to one side. He clicks the on-screen submit button, then gets up and leaves the room.
rainey goes to pick up his cup of morning coffee but accidentally knocks it over onto his keyoard. He tries to wipe fmbnj.aaskljhfu39284bsdg ,uysv;ohiAW,.’ thn cis to kp tping anwa, rgarlss of th rsults
He stared at the blank computer screen and scratched his head, freeing dandruff to fall on the keyboard.
“Describe myself in third person, huh?” He repeated outloud. “This should be interesting.”
Then from down the hallway a muffled scream shot out from under covers. It was his nine month old, and it was time for a bottle.
“Damnit!” he gruffed, under his breath. “I better think of something fast.”
Sitting alone in his dimly lit apartment bedroom he sat staring at the carelessly strewn items laying on and around his unmade bed. Wearing a gray and black Old Navy sweat-shirt and green kakie shorts he got up and paced around the rectangular bedroom which consisted of nothing but a couch bed and computer desk. There was a television on no stand playing white noise in the background. His hair was cut short and his 9 o’clock shadow was beginning to set in. He approached the window and looked down from his 16th story view and had a short snicker at the old bumb panhandling on the corner. “What a punctual guy” he thought…
Zeuhb sits before his laptop. Apparently, he’s not a touch-typist as both his eyes and fingers are on the keys. Nonetheless words seem to be appearing on his screen at a relatively brisk pace. . . . . . . . . . . He pauses . . . . . . . . . . He pauses again . . . . . . He pau
Then suddenly, without moving, he turns and stares directly at me.
Gaiaguerrilla sits in front of the wall of his sloppy excuse for a room- complete with two inflatable mats, strewn with clothes and wires everywhere. He cackles to himself disturbingly at the posts before his own, checking his most hated nemesis at the corner of the screen- It’s 5:30 am. Still a good 10 hours away from work time.
“Maybe I just won’t sleep” he thinks to himself. “Who am I kidding. 6am rolls around, I’m out until the very last second I can afford to debate getting out of bed or getting fired.”
“OH SHIT!” A brazen shard of a thought pierces his mind. What serious dilemma did he think of now? “I MISSED VOYAGEUR!”
He debates the idle entertainment value of that post. “Yeah, what the hell,” and clicks submit.
…and there she sits, on a black leather corner sofa: drinking vin blanc in Nice in a peach kaftan - the radio playing soothing Indie-pop, and it’s fast approaching 3pm: soon it will be time to venture out for dinner, and time to be leered at by leery French men.
She contemplates having to pack and being at Nice airport by 16:00hrs tomorrow for her flight home: where ad work, extras in the movies and other such blase past-times beckon!
hmm he looks amused an interesting topic on website he scratches his stubbly chin sat cross-legged and swiveling on the swivel chair he types and re-types two lines of text then submits
She would rather be watching the Stanley Cup finals - will Sid the Kid pull his team up to .500? Unfortunately, a tornado warning is in effect and the all-important weather-trons are preempting the game. WTF? It’s barely hailing outside. She is not happy.
Frustrated, she heads to the computer and passes the time browsing the Philosophy forum. Always entertaining, but still, she wants to be watching hockey.
Oop, there goes the siren. She does not head to the basement but continues typing.
Between periods he checks the Creative Writing forum and finds he’s apparently not the only hockey fan around. The thought makes him smile.
Ha, she laughed to see she had company. She wondered who Rainey was rooting for? Since the Wild were long-since done, she didn’t have a favorite, but she figured if the Penguins couldn’t score when they were 5 on 3, it probably just wasn’t meant to be.
She debates having another beer, and decides to go for it. The night is young, and there’s a lot of philosophy to explore.
They called it, the place where he was born, simply, The 'Burgh. And although it’s been many, many years since he moved away to warmer environs, he still has a spot in his heart for the city of steel. And so he laments this morning, as he posts a reply in answer to Anita, last night’s defeat at the hands of a hockey team that seems clearly superior to the boys in black and gold. Detroit in 5, is the only realistic position to now take. But being realistic was never his strong suit, and he dreams of a comeback, and wishes Anita good luck in her exploration of things philosophic.
“Oh great” Gaiaguerrilla smirked to himself.
“The rare female on this board, and here comes the suck up wagon in hopes they might get lucky.”
EDIT-- Gaiaguerrilla stared at his post in apparent shame that he actually submitted that . . . after a short internal debate, he decided that it would be unethical to delete it now.
Realizing that Gaiaguerrilla (a member he was unfamiliar with) knew absolutely nothing about him, rainey wonders at the reason behind the post, the assumption made from thin air, the impudence of it, and what it might reveal about the writer of it; and thinks Gaiagerrilla might better have been served listening to the shame he felt and deleted it. And although he appreciates the nod towards the ethical (albeit an admitted afterthought) the post confirms to rainey’s mind why he rarely travels out of Creative Writing and why in general he rarely engages in discussions on internet message forums.
Gaiaguerrilla considered Rainey’s response and felt apologetic. “Would it help if I said I’m a cynical jerk?” he murmured. And figured the thread is best left alone.
Now rainey feels apologetic. Gaiaguerrilla seems like a decent enough guy, and rainey’s post now seems a tad harsh. It’s the third-person narrative viewpoint! he thinks. It’s confusing. It’s evil. It’s just not right, damnit.
She’s on her lunch hour at work, where they frown upon internet usage, but she had to check in with Rainey to see if he watched last night’s game? If so, she bets he’s very tired (but happy) today. The Penguins won’t give it up without a fight.
She’s hoping Pittsburgh can take it all the way to Game 7.
Now she reluctantly gets ready to log off and get back to what she’s getting paid to do. She wishes she could get somebody to pay her to read and ponder the deep mysteries of life, but alas, that doesn’t seem to be forthcoming.
Kevin logs in, thinking of himself as a nano bug. Typing, he pauses to swig from a forty ouncer of beer. Head in a nodding movement, he continues to nod at the music, with questions that involve the imput/output. Thinking “they” want to know what song I am nodding to, so as to identify and to better nod with me. I answer, oh they know just fine, it is the symphony of the universe.
Then i bend down to insert my cock into a blow up doll, but quickly remember to click the submit button, hoping i can climax before she deflates.
rainey yawns, sleepy-eyed, drowsy…and shamed. He gave the Pens two overtime periods and would give them no more. Why stay up to these ungodly hours just to see Detroit skate the Cup? he had asked himself last night before clicking the remote and succumbing to sleep. His lack of faith is now a source of embarrassment. Maybe he’ll lie to Anita, he thinks. Tell her, “Sure, I stayed up to see them win it in the third overtime! You bet I did! Saw the whole thing! Never had a doubt about the outcome!”
But he knows it would be wrong. She’s a hockey fan. She deserves the truth. “I quit on them,” he knows he has to admit. And he yawns again, sleepy-eyed, drowsy…
Pittsburgh in 7.