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boob3rriedaiquiri · 1 year

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Hold The Ketchup

Years ago, a friend posted a writing prompt and I decided to do it. I just recently made it into an image!

The timer told him he had 17 minutes, 21 seconds left. If he didn't hurry, the place would be closed. He wasn't sure how he would get any sleep if he didn't make it in time. It felt like his entire life was on the balance. It was unfortunate that he lived so far away from his destination, but he had to visit every day that he could after hours full of work and going home to discuss matters with the family. He would've wrestled a bear, pulled teeth, to get his over-used hands on that sandwiched, meaty goodness. The bus he took couldn't have been slower; he could've run faster than it. No one understood the importance of this delicious diet he committed himself to. It made life worth living for. As soon as the vehicle stopped, he rushed past others and practically barged out the door, nearly falling on his face. No. No concrete, no ignorant strangers, or buses were going to get in the way of his personal happiness.

There were only 5 minutes to spare.

He burst through the restaurant's doors. A line was before him. Curse them and their indecisiveness; if one does not know what they want, then they are not worthy to be there; they're wasting precious time. It was now the time and hour. He spat out the garnishes he wanted on his prize: lettuce, onions, mayonnaise, mustard. And you best not forget that crispy bacon.

At last, his ordered sandwich was now in his hands. Everything around him ceased to exist. Nothing mattered but the moist, golden bread—the girth of the patty along with its complimenting add-ons.

Bang goes his brains.

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boob3rriedaiquiri · 2 years

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boob3rriedaiquiri · 2 years

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Rose-Colored Room

Done in 2012. I was having shower thoughts. First, I thought about art pieces I've seen revolving around the idea if trees could talk, how would they react to being chopped down, then I thought "what if corpses could talk," and this was born.

Today, you wanted to meet me in my own room. You didn't say what you wanted, though. Just that you needed me.

I see you walking in with a vacant expression. I don't understand.

You're carrying tools. What are they for?

This is getting old.

Again, why must we fight? Why the accusations? Why don't they end? Can't you see I'm ever-loyal?

But you stop. And you look at me, lovingly.

I love you, too.

That hurt. But you didn't mean it, darling. It's okay. Just be careful next time.

But you're not. You keep hitting me with that thing. You're so clumsy. Then again, so am I.

I didn't get why you wanted to meet here, but now, I think I understand.

That's a lovely shade of red you're using to paint my room. You always did know what was best for me.

But just look at me. I'm a mess. I don't know if I'm coming or going. So tired.

Looking at me, you look enticed, my love. What is it?

Oh, but should we? Someone might see. I'm all out of place. And I say, it's real indecent.

But you don't care. You never do.

As always, you're so rough and quick. Never slow and soft. But I understand why the rush. I understand.

The moment you would finish is how you show you love me. I always look forward to it, unexpected.

Now you're packing up. And me along.

Why? Are you embarrassed? Was it something that I said? Or maybe that was the worst sex we ever had. Are you disgusted with me?

The room looks wonderful, by the way.

Why must it end? I'll miss you.

But you really know what's best for me.

Goodbye, my love.

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boob3rriedaiquiri · 2 years

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Happiness is a Whore

An epiphany I had in 2009.

This pain. The unbearable pain. How can she be so cruel? I have yet to understand why she did what she did. Was everything I did for her not good enough?

For her, I would go to my job—every day—to put up with that slave-driver-of-a boss and the favored employees. It was all worth it, though: for the money, to help her and I get by. It was all worth it to see her happy. With her around, it didn't matter if I didn't have any friends.

One of the troubles I've always had was not being good at making friends. But then I met her, and we became something more. Ever since our relationship matured, she always told me that she was the happiest, luckiest woman alive to have found someone like me—had always told me how much she loved me during and after we made love...

She seemed so happy. We were both happy. Her, me, and the kids: we were almost picture-perfect. Those days, that seem so few now, were paradise.

... I suppose all that doesn't matter now. They were all lies. She left me and took the kids with her; in short, I have no permission to ever see them again. All this—to be with that one guy I don't know. Through all the verbal assaults, she never explained herself.

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I walked, by myself, down the usual long and dark path towards home, to be alone for the fourth night in a row. Dinner by myself, talk to myself, spend the night away: all by myself.

"Hun, why do you look so down?"

I stopped. Such a sweet, charming, lovely voice called out to me; a voice that sounded so sincere. I looked up, and I saw her.

This woman—she—was the definition of beauty. Her looks, in my opinion, were flawless.

And...she cared for what caused such a mess in a form of a pathetic-looking man? Such a rare occasion this was for me... Probably for a lot of people, actually.

"Oh... Well, you see, my wife recently divorced me."

She frowned. "... That's so sad. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah... Well, it happens, I guess..."

Realizing that I was just standing there in silence with this woman, I tell her, "I better get going."

"Wait. Have anything planned for tonight? If not, why not come with me for a great time?"

"To where?"

"I don't know, a movie? Restaurant? I'm up for anything."

"Sure, I guess... But miss, I didn't get your name."

"They call me 'Happiness.'"

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I couldn't believe it. Just like that, I was out on a date with a stranger named Happiness. Guess one would wonder what was wrong with me. I guess I really was desperate for some company.

And this woman—this Happiness—was already so promising.

We actually had a great time! I felt like I haven't laughed in years! We shared a lot, and it turned out we had a lot of things in common.

Happiness is fun to be with. She makes you laugh and not be so alone anymore.

Like a gentleman, I walked her back to her place. There, she stood in the doorway, smiling at me.

"Happiness, I had a great time. I want for us to go out on another date, soon."

Just when I thought she'd tell me that she'll see me again sometime and shut the door, "The night doesn't have to end here. For twenty, I'll be sure to take your mind off your troubles."

I was in awe. I went out with a prostitute and didn't even know it. In hindsight, of course she was; it was so obvious. However, I didn't know prostitutes could be so nice, inviting, so beautiful—yet so cheap? I always heard and seen how awful both their appearances and personalities can be. Almost nothing about her matched the stereotype.

I accepted the offer. It's a little embarrassing, but I'm a man of needs. Maybe you're able to sympathize...

She was right. Happiness did take my mind off my troubles and then some. And she actually let me stay with her til morning.

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Happiness told me that if I ever wanted an experience like that again, I should look in the same place.

And you know what? I did. Countless of times. It was like being lifted on my feet again.

With Happiness, it's about you. She wants to do what you want. But hell, doing what she wanted to do made me happy. With her, it can go either way.

She would listen to what you have to say and even say what you wanted to hear.

Happiness is comforting. With her, it seems like nothing could go wrong.

At the end of every night, we would go to her place, sometimes even mine. Didn't have to be our place, even.

Cause, with Happiness, it's where you want it to be. Doesn't have to be night time, either. Anytime, anywhere.

Whenever I wanted to feel her touch—her embrace—all I had to do was pay.

Happiness: She was not free.

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Things were great—more than great—they were wonderful, terrific, unreal. As long as I kept paying, Happiness was there with me.

But once-in-a-while ended up not being enough. I wanted more.

So, I asked if I could have her for a whole week.

Happiness said I could: for a higher price.

I accepted.

Then one day, I asked if I could have her for two weeks.

Happiness allowed it for an even higher price.

I accepted.

Then, I asked if I could have her for a whole month.

I got my wish for a bigger price.

I actually asked her for a whole year.

I was falling in love with Happiness.

Astonished as she was, she accepted for a bigger price.

I obliged.

I paid for her like a prescription.

Happiness was my home.

Happiness was my entertainment.

Happiness was my food.

Recalling back now, I think the trouble really started when I could barely support myself anymore.

She was concerned, but I told her:

It was worth it.

For Happiness.

I must have been insane.

I asked if she would marry me.

...

Even Happiness has her limits.

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Things then got awkward with Happiness.

Back at my job, among other places, word got around about her.

A couple of men, women even, shared their own experiences with Happiness.

Every word that was said was like how I felt and experienced.

One of them had the same idea of marrying her!

I also heard she had been to other places besides this town, doing her thing.

Hell, Happiness has traveled worldwide.

There it came again. The pain.

The thought of Happiness one day leaving me...

I wanted and needed Happiness to stay.

I was willing to even share Happiness. As long as I can have Happiness too.

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Wanting for this all-too-familiar pain to go away, I sought after Happiness, once more.

She was not there at her spot.

It only meant one thing.

My fear came true.

She was gone.

Happiness may be worldwide, but she can't be there for everyone. This is a cold, hard, sad fact.

I began to feel so weak to the point I fell to my knees.

I wanted a life with Happiness.

I was willing to pay for Happiness to marry me, willing to pay for her to bear and birth my child.

I was even willing to pay for her to be there at my funeral; that way, in spirit, I could see Happiness.

And all the while, I'd still be able to share her!

On my knees, trying to grab onto any sanity and self-control I had left.

Realization then hit me like concrete.

Blinded my desperation and sorrow, I was not able to see the truth.

It's more clear to me now.

Happiness is a whore.

A fucking whore.

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