Fruit
02-05-2010, 05:35 AM
Hello. This is a little narrative nonfiction piece that I'm writing, basically an embellishment about my current bout with Staph infection (ugh). It's just the exposition, inciting incident and a minor setup; it's not finished and it's not polished. I just want to know if this intro works and is interesting. Thanks.
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Here I lay, outstretched on my back, sofa-bound because of a bacterial marauder, which barbarously dealt havoc on my inner thigh for two whole days. My sentiments on the ordeal have left me questioning my unconditional appreciation for all life on earth. The following narration of events will do much to color my dismay.
The first morning of my affliction was like any other, besides the fact that I had an ingrown hair with an evil eye that looked up at me. It's not the loveliest of images but don't worry, it gets worse.
To preface, I'll say that being extremely hairy isn't all about a protruding mane of machismo and something to hold onto. Yes, hairiness does have its benefits, but the bountiful follicles that drape our bodies have the tendency to run amuck, afoul, and below ground. They sometimes grow inward. In other words, instead of being born like healthy hairs outwards and upwards toward the heavens, these impish miscreants are born straight to hell. Unhappy with their lot in physiological life, these ingrown, misfit bastards brood and scheme in festering silence about how they'll upset balance in the hallowed human body that rejected them. They seek validity through visceral vengeance, and engage devilry through derma-destruction. And it is on these precepts that my little imp waged its underground war.
The first day, the epidermal squatter projected an annoying yet manageable presence. I thought it was a regular ingrown hair, no different in intensity than a painfully pugnacious pimple, and one which I could easily dispatch using traditional weapons. But the creature which occupied an increasingly larger space on my inner thigh was something until now unseen and unfelt. Nonetheless, I, out of reticence, applied Occham's Razor and ignored the omen, and went on with my day with a pang, some pain, and then a limp, and finally a painful pang as I limped--Oh, how I now wish Occam's Razor could actually cut.
Night fell and I limped off to bed, naively hoping that I could sleep off the cystic calamity brewing beneath. I turned off the lights and for the first time since my childhood I cringed at what I saw, or couldn't see--a pitch black room. Perhaps paranoia was another symptom of this mounting invasion, or maybe the blackness meant something, being that the top of the boil hounding my leg was black. Probably paranoia; relax, I thought to myself, affecting composure. Plus, you don't want to manifest negative energy. I rejoined thinking there was already negative energy that was driving the twisting, churning, inflaming blob in my leg to grow. Well, maybe some positive energy couldn't hurt, or strong antibiotics for that matter. I decided against anxiety and after a few deep breaths, genuinely resigned my worries until the next day. I thought about other things, good things that were in essence completely inorganic, like my new bike, my laptop, my rock paperweights, and Costco hot dogs.
So there I lay, with legs spread, falling asleep, forgetting my woe, as the little bulbous devil, plotting and corrupting from within my fleshy empire, gathered strength for its next phase of attack.
-------------------------------------------
Here I lay, outstretched on my back, sofa-bound because of a bacterial marauder, which barbarously dealt havoc on my inner thigh for two whole days. My sentiments on the ordeal have left me questioning my unconditional appreciation for all life on earth. The following narration of events will do much to color my dismay.
The first morning of my affliction was like any other, besides the fact that I had an ingrown hair with an evil eye that looked up at me. It's not the loveliest of images but don't worry, it gets worse.
To preface, I'll say that being extremely hairy isn't all about a protruding mane of machismo and something to hold onto. Yes, hairiness does have its benefits, but the bountiful follicles that drape our bodies have the tendency to run amuck, afoul, and below ground. They sometimes grow inward. In other words, instead of being born like healthy hairs outwards and upwards toward the heavens, these impish miscreants are born straight to hell. Unhappy with their lot in physiological life, these ingrown, misfit bastards brood and scheme in festering silence about how they'll upset balance in the hallowed human body that rejected them. They seek validity through visceral vengeance, and engage devilry through derma-destruction. And it is on these precepts that my little imp waged its underground war.
The first day, the epidermal squatter projected an annoying yet manageable presence. I thought it was a regular ingrown hair, no different in intensity than a painfully pugnacious pimple, and one which I could easily dispatch using traditional weapons. But the creature which occupied an increasingly larger space on my inner thigh was something until now unseen and unfelt. Nonetheless, I, out of reticence, applied Occham's Razor and ignored the omen, and went on with my day with a pang, some pain, and then a limp, and finally a painful pang as I limped--Oh, how I now wish Occam's Razor could actually cut.
Night fell and I limped off to bed, naively hoping that I could sleep off the cystic calamity brewing beneath. I turned off the lights and for the first time since my childhood I cringed at what I saw, or couldn't see--a pitch black room. Perhaps paranoia was another symptom of this mounting invasion, or maybe the blackness meant something, being that the top of the boil hounding my leg was black. Probably paranoia; relax, I thought to myself, affecting composure. Plus, you don't want to manifest negative energy. I rejoined thinking there was already negative energy that was driving the twisting, churning, inflaming blob in my leg to grow. Well, maybe some positive energy couldn't hurt, or strong antibiotics for that matter. I decided against anxiety and after a few deep breaths, genuinely resigned my worries until the next day. I thought about other things, good things that were in essence completely inorganic, like my new bike, my laptop, my rock paperweights, and Costco hot dogs.
So there I lay, with legs spread, falling asleep, forgetting my woe, as the little bulbous devil, plotting and corrupting from within my fleshy empire, gathered strength for its next phase of attack.