Day 73: Still no first penny

            Much better today.  Back on the bandwagon.  Excuse that hiccup.  I wonder what effect it had on my writing.  Probably positive.  I am going to have to get better at completely bullshitting situations that I have no background in describing, that's for sure.  I should probably practice technical writing as well.
            Found the word "plash" yesterday, that's a pretty good one.
            Inane bullshit, yadda yadda yadda.
            Do people like high culture things because they are high culture, or is it to not be associated with low culture?  For instance, should I stop going to BW3?  What separates it from Chuck E Cheese?  Why are adult interests important to have as an adult?


 

            The robot pored lights out of its eyes like a rainbow alarm clock.  The woods became a diorama, long armed whistlers and shortbread hocking loafers advertising their wares.  A merchendising man with a horizontal inventory of balloons sold Jim a UCLA sweatshirt, it was the only sweatshirt he had.

            “This isn’t my history.”  Jim stated plainly.  The monkeys jumped from the trees, they were too busy being real to be holograms.  A caveman kicked at a tree tirelessly attempting to loose a bees nest, his flowing green plantwear shuffling like the leaves.  The earth shifted into a facsimile of itself, much more interesting and full of action.  There were even projections of some of Jim’s early inventions, the robotic hedgehog which acted exactly like a regular hedgehog ouside of the fact that it’s moving parts would misfire and prevent its eyes from opening.  Under the elevated palm tree that formed an island in the middle of the forest, his automated carpet cleaner turned remote control seed planter and tiller spun in elongated circles, like two men were fighting over control of it’s steering wheel.

Punching its fist against a tree trunk, spitting for no reason, and popping its metal collar stood the bully bot he had programmed to give him someone to standup to.  It’s eyes were programmed to always be squinting, its teeth moving in a constant mastication.  He wanted to break the perpetual engram in his life of being tormented and abused for tinkering when he created the thing.  It might have been in grade school, secondary school, middle school, or high school when the thought dawned on him.  Psychologically standing up to a bully wasn’t possible when that bully would physically manhandle you.  There hadn’t been a time when he wasn’t a tinkerer, although he hadn’t often followed logical instructions or seen one idea through to an end. 

The bully bot was across by the little duck pond, breaking sticks off of trees and throwing rocks hard in no particular direction.  Jim hid behind the robot head, who was rendered temporarily unable to speak as it continued to falsify the world.  Its eyes spun in a mind control circle, the little black dots that Jim had placed inside spinning uncontrollably.  The dirt under Jim’s feet was particularly sticky, wet dirt blending with his faded jeans.

            The bully bot stood rigid; it always demonstrated an air of nonchalance that feigned it didn’t know what was going on.  The design encompassed a metal chin that protruded further based on how much the arms were moving, and arms that had a muscle system that made them look bigger in moments of durress.  The result was a strutting, taunting machine with inverted leg joints capable of running much faster than Jim.  He’d be in store for some wedgies if it saw him.

A Tarzan type of fellow swung from the trees, performing a flying kick and copyright infringing yell.  The squirrels scampered feverously collecting nuts, it was like it had suddenly began raining holographic money.  For most of the entities in this dream world, the disappointment would be on par with waking up from a dream to realize you can’t actually fly and that girl wasn’t sleeping next to you.

            Jim went back inside the robot shed, and searched frantically for the thing he made that turned all of his robots off.  The hand of the humanoid thing he made to participate in the battle bots tournament dented the side of the robot head, and it starts leaking clear fluid from the ceiling.  He could have sworn it was a giant red button, he remembered using that design specifically for it’s glaring gaudiness and overall noticeability.  The button had been designed so it could be spotted in complete dark, regardless of the fact he had forgotten to make it light up.  There was no button, the robot head had shook everything loose to reengage itself, a clammering cacophony mixed with wood sounds.   He could no longer remember what his current invention was to save it, all of these pieces suddenly becoming his enemies.  Through some sort of osmosis the robot head had absorbed all of the wooden contents inside of it, as well.  All of Jim’s original wooden inventions were gone, a fact that he didn’t have time to bemoan as the metal head ripped open and an emergency steam release valve sounded its warning signal.

            Jim had dedicated himself to putting an off switch on all of his inventions, but they always seemed to be in spots which were difficult to get it.  That was the problem with inventing transformers, they’d change into their second form that you hadn’t actually invented, instead only made theoretically possible.  The robot house, he now remembered, was meant to be nothing more than a bomb shelter with a cloaking device.  He jumped out  of it with undue urgency, the steam rose out of it at a reasonable heat but not bone melting intensity.

            Roger was at the Speedway down the block, picking up icecream bars for the girls who were upset with him.  Since getting in the car, he failed to guess what Sally’s fingerpainting was of, and he glanced up tiredly at the rearview mirror while pretending he needed to watch the road to navigate the course that had become so routine over the last months.

            He retrieved the frozen shapes of cartoon characters that the girls loved from the cooler, and each nurtured hers with passing interest.  Sandy glared up at him and held the picture up again, leaning up in an uncomfortable way against the capital L shaped seatbelt.

            “Uh, a spiderweb.”

            “No!  Try again!”

            “I don’t know… a moose?”

            “Daddy you’re not even trying!”

            He veered a hard right to avoid a stick that easily would have been crushed underneath the tires.

            “The blue upside down thing… that’s a rainbow right?”  Roger asked, earnestly.

            He took the turn the way he always did, slowing and turning sharply right, and then setting the car back into reverse while being careful to avoid the trees behind him.  Light reflected in his eyes off of the cross hanging from the rearview mirror.  The girls were already sitting up and raring to get out of the car.

            

            Ok, proofreading is when you get some of your best stuff.  I have a feeling my first shitty Charles novel is going to be a million times better after I proofread it and add all kinds of crap.