Spartacus is drinking coffee out of a cup with a picture of Satan on it.
Mr. Satan: “That’s Mr. Satan to you, Spartacus.”
Spartacus (not really): “It’s not Spartacus, Mr. Satan, it’s Image of Man in Ironed Shirt Scanning Unimportant Paper Pretending to be Important Paper.”
Mr. Satan: “That is a very long and unnecessarily descriptive name.”
Fudge: “I know it is. Call me Fudge instead.”
Mr. Satan (winking like Ben Vereen): “That is also descriptive.”
Fudge: “ Yeah. Clever, right? My whole life. Reduced to one word that is (sarcastically) witty.”
Fudge looks deep into the coffee cup. Reminders of being at the beach when he was fourteen and looking gainfully, ignorantly, and desperately at teenage girls in a variety of bathing attire. There was no internet, cell phones, or reality television. This was all he had.
Mr. Satan (bored and slippery): “Whatever. So is the coffee cup also a clever replication of some ilk?”
Fudge: “I suppose (haphazardly, knowingly; second-rate, last place). Hey, wanna watch a movie?”
Mr. Satan: “You’re kidding, right? I’m going to the beach.”
Fudge (fists on hips, like defiant oatmeal commercial): “Ha! Of course! I am just restless like a catamaran.”
Fudge sips lukewarm coffee, grimaces, and decides to go to the beach alone. There is nothing there but cobwebs and impurities.
Later, when Fudge comes home, he likes his sunburn and proceeds to feel desperate. Clockwork.
He knows he has been lucky. And he knows he is running out of time, Spartacus. It’s in all the papers.
I am a photocopied paper doll version of myself. There are still glimpses of the original, but every speck of dust and fold and crease of degeneration is carried on into the next iteration. Imperfection is fine, but deterioration is not, and I fear that, eventually, I will resemble more my end than my beginning, a foreshadowed Xerox of impending black, and therefore doom. For now, the similarities lull me to comfort and make me smile, if sadly. But every push of that green button and flash of white-green light brings me further from the only me I have ever wanted.
The Writer's Block 
Spartacus is drinking coffee out of a cup with a picture of Satan on it.
Mr. Satan: “That’s Mr. Satan to you, Spartacus.”
Spartacus (not really): “It’s not Spartacus, Mr. Satan, it’s Image of Man in Ironed Shirt Scanning Unimportant Paper Pretending to be Important Paper.”
Mr. Satan: “That is a very long and unnecessarily descriptive name.”
Fudge: “I know it is. Call me Fudge instead.”
Mr. Satan (winking like Ben Vereen): “That is also descriptive.”
Fudge: “ Yeah. Clever, right? My whole life. Reduced to one word that is (sarcastically) witty.”
Fudge looks deep into the coffee cup. Reminders of being at the beach when he was fourteen and looking gainfully, ignorantly, and desperately at teenage girls in a variety of bathing attire. There was no internet, cell phones, or reality television. This was all he had.
Mr. Satan (bored and slippery): “Whatever. So is the coffee cup also a clever replication of some ilk?”
Fudge: “I suppose (haphazardly, knowingly; second-rate, last place). Hey, wanna watch a movie?”
Mr. Satan: “You’re kidding, right? I’m going to the beach.”
Fudge (fists on hips, like defiant oatmeal commercial): “Ha! Of course! I am just restless like a catamaran.”
Fudge sips lukewarm coffee, grimaces, and decides to go to the beach alone. There is nothing there but cobwebs and impurities.
Later, when Fudge comes home, he likes his sunburn and proceeds to feel desperate. Clockwork.
He knows he has been lucky. And he knows he is running out of time, Spartacus. It’s in all the papers.
I am a photocopied paper doll version of myself. There are still glimpses of the original, but every speck of dust and fold and crease of degeneration is carried on into the next iteration. Imperfection is fine, but deterioration is not, and I fear that, eventually, I will resemble more my end than my beginning, a foreshadowed Xerox of impending black, and therefore doom. For now, the similarities lull me to comfort and make me smile, if sadly. But every push of that green button and flash of white-green light brings me further from the only me I have ever wanted.
On paper, I should be happy.
Perfect wife,
perfect kids,
perfect dog.
Perfect job.
Smart.
Strong.
Attractive.
Fit.
Good schools.
Good family.
Sexy as all get out.
On paper.
In reality,
I hate the job,
Can’t stand the kids,
Don’t have the dog.
Not as fit,
Or strong,
Or smart as I would like to be.
Miss the school,
But not the family.
And sexy only gets you so far when your perfect wife claims genuine disinterest.