A taste of pure Genius

Lena and I have been scriblings some ideas about a possible story. Here, enjoy a nibble. Somehow the formatting is fucked up. But enjoy:

Part one of a 220 part series

The clock struck one p.m. Or at least it would have had she owned a clock that struck. She rolled over lazily in a feeble attempt to search for the glasses she always misplaced. She failed to find them. What else was new? Nothing ever seemed to work out as she wanted it to. Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember the last time she had really wanted anything at all. Wait. She knew she wanted one thing: to take a piss. Sliding off the bed roll (she didn’t own a mattress) she headed to the bathroom and switched on the light. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed an irregular black stain on the wall. Looking closer, she saw the feelers move as if searching for the unattainable touch of scent. In a heartbeat, nothing remained of the cockroach but the insides which were now on the outside of her palm. She decided to take a piss before washing her hands. It was pointless to wash one’s hands twice. “I have just come closer to saving the human race,” she thought to herself as the stream of dark yellow liquid, or “gold” as she put it, drained into the toilet bowl. In an attempt to conserve energy, she made what she thought was the conscious effort to not flush the toilet. Then, with much a stumble, she gated closer to the sink and looked at her reflection in the toothpaste-speckled mirror. She often wished there was something interesting about the way she looked. Because she was lacking in that area, she was left lusting for a discernible characteristic such as a scar across her eye, as the best villains in film sported. Her hair which was neither long nor short, blond nor brown, straight nor curly, flopped over her simple, neither blue nor green but gray, eyes. “Basil Polen,” she proclaimed, “saver of the human race!”

She was already late for class, so one more cup of coffee couldn’t hurt. She had a “just enjoy the coffee” policy during which nothing could frustrate, encourage, disappoint, or excite her. And why should it? Her nonchalance created ignorance, and ignorance was bliss, and bliss was one step closer to reaching nirvana, as she thought. That was how Buddha would do it, or was it Allah? Even these thoughts proved to be too intense and provoking for coffee time. While being baptized Roman Catholic, she couldn’t care less if she died and ended as food for the earthworms consuming her, only to be shat out as dirt. Lost in thought, Basil failed to notice that the cherry of her cig had dropped on the stormy-blue velvet couch and proceeded to burn a hole through the cushion. Even if she had noticed, she wouldn’t have cared. It was her roommate’s couch. One stolen, no doubt, out of the dumpster behind her apartment building. Her apartment was an assorted clutter of mess, collected haphazardly from random moments and places in her life. Bits of wire hung on the walls along with paintings she had attempted, and photo-shopped photographs she had taken after receiving a new digital camera. Receiving was the wrong word. She had actually spent her entire paycheck (a paycheck she could not afford to spend) on the shiny metallic object. This Basil-world of hers that existed in the tiny apartment was a place of solace and contemplation for her, and that’s why she spent so little time there. The world was full of adventures. Yet somehow, these adventures failed to find her.

She was jerked out of her daydreaming by the harassing ring of the telephone. She looked over at it with indifference, jumped off the couch, put her satchel over her shoulders, and slammed the door on the way out.