Sweaty Introductions

#np ‘Nothing’ by Total Silence

Ladies and gentlemen, for the next bare-naked narration of a man trudging through his day smothered by a sheet of sweat, we politely ask that you stay calm, and allow the mad scientist behind this boiling pot of letters and periods to continue concocting his imaginary self-portrait.

[[ACTION]]

SCENE 1:

(Our protagonist, a guy in his twenties, clad in a grey track trouser and faded black hoodie, paces by a tree-lined side-walk, carrying a water-bottle blazoned with the Manchester United logo in his left hand. With earphones on, he walks along in wonky fashion, bobbing his head ever so gently, ever so rhythmically, as he listens to whatever it is that he listens to. Approaching a road intersection, he slowly grinds to a halt. He looks to the ground as if in search of something, or maybe to steady his step on the kerb, we’re not sure which. The camera zooms in to focus on his face.)

[[Fade to black. Credits.]]

(Scene opens with the guy looking dead into the camera. Eyes focused, gaze narrowed. A sheepish grin escapes from the confines of his face. He opens his arms wide, as words finally show relieved signs of being spewed out of his tooth-filled cavity.)

#20_SYOG:
Guys, I’m back at the gym. (smiles)

(Checks for oncoming traffic then crosses as soon as road is clear. With earphones still on, he continues…)

I told you guys, nothing on earth is as focussed as a man with a purpose, didn’t I? (Wrinkles face) Wait…did I tell you guys or was it the other guys I talked to yesterday? Because I sure see some faces that are as ugly as the ones I saw yesterday, some even uglier. (Aside: Like a bright new dawn comes each day, so do people get uglier in bright new ways.) Anyway, listen up guys…I’m tired of false pretences, I’m fed up of small talk and have no time for empty chatter or things that don’t concern me. And yes, I did intend on using the word ‘guy(s)’ excessively today, because I have no time for play-names like ‘peepz’ or ‘fam’. If you have a problem with that…

(Quietly lifts a very long middle finger and shows it to the camera. Camera continues to focus on 20-something year old guy, ie. #20_SYOG, as he narrates his story.)

Now, I recently came to learn that my temperament variation is part Melancholic and part Phlegmatic – MelPhleg that is. I’ll hereby assume that most of you dear viewers (read: guys), if not all, are well versed with what temperaments are. However, for those who need an introduction to the course: temperament, as far as the Reader’s Digest Oxford Dictionary is concerned, can be described as:

noun/ a person’s distinct nature and character, especially as determined by physical constitution and permanently affecting behaviour.

So before I go any further, allow me, dames and gents, to dash to the house so that I may read to you an excerpt I lifted off Tim Lahaye’s book, whose title I hope you’ll Google for yourself.

(Gets off to a light jog. Camera shifts view. The image of #20_SYOG trails off as he jogs to who-knows-where.)

SCENE 2:

(Scene opens with #20_SYOG, now dressed in red boxers only, with traces of sweat still clinging dearly onto his upper body, flipping through the pages of a book. Finally locating the page he is looking for…)

“These gifted introverts (MelPhleg personalities that is) combine the analytical perfectionism of the melancholy with the organized efficiency of the phlegmatic. They are usually good-natured humanitarians who prefer a quiet, solitary environment for study and research to the endless rounds of activities sought by the more extroverted temperaments (~he forgot to mention music, they tend to listen to loads of it~). (…) Mr. Melancholy has by far the richest and most sensitive nature of all the temperaments. (…)He particularly excels in the fine arts, with a vast appreciation for life’s cultural values. He is emotionally responsive, but unlike the sanguine is motivated to reflective thinking through his emotions. (…)Martin Melancholy has strong perfectionist tendencies. (…)The analytical ability of the melancholy, combined with his perfectionist tendencies, make him a hound for detail. Whenever a project is suggested, he can analyze it in a few moments and pick out every potential problem. He can always be depended upon to finish his job in the prescribed amount of time, or to carry his end of the load. He rarely seeks the limelight (~so true~), but prefers to do the behind-the scenes task. He often chooses a very sacrificial vocation for life, for he has an unusual desire to give himself to the betterment of his fellow man.”

What does this excerpt have to do with me? Well, everything.

For in the few words Tim Lahaye used to described MelPhleg personalities, I felt like I was being dissected atop of a biology class table. I felt four scientific imbeciles, so focussed on learning about inner matter, pinning me down to the wooden platform thingies on which specimens are laid during practical classes. I saw their lab coats, as white as our dear Caucasian brothers and sisters from Northern Europe, swooshing through the air as they moved around the table in gleeful delight. Clapping their hands as they skip to imaginary tunes and sounds, perhaps the sound of metal objects clanking around inside their heads. Shiny, sharp, metal instruments lie around me. All placed in an orderly manner, all breathing heavily as they drool for a taste of my flesh. My body lies in state, even though my only viewers are these gloved imbeciles in white coats. As the head of the group finally comes to stare me down before my final exit, with eyes red-lit by the fire growing at the bottom of his curiosity, I give my last lifeless plea as I try, one last time, to save my skin from their grime filled claws.

Nothing I say looks to dissuade him, not even the offer to give him my sister’s phone number. For the fire in his eyes seems to consume the white even faster, replacing it with a red that reeks of wild and uncontrolled violence. I look at the two men and two women around me, very ready to help me see kingdom-come, and realize that these imbeciles aren’t real. That I really am not meant to be on this table. That all these psychotic thoughts are really just figments of my wacky imagination. But the water in which I drown only inches higher by the minute. I feel my ears filling up with water as the first incision is made right in the middle of my chest. More incisions and slices follow.

Slowly, surely, the thoughts in me start scrambling for caves in which they can hide, dark alleys in which they can escape to, so as not to be lost to the world I now depart. My tearing flesh makes noises I wish I could forget, even though I will definitely not have a recollection of this entire process. The transition to who-knows-where is slow yet sure. Memories of my past are my last cognitive moments on that table, with an image of the new me being the last image that flashes through my mind.

From kind-of living life, to embracing the fullness of my new life. From a world of conformity, to a world of fighting the flow and fleeing from the norm. This is the new me. I no longer care about non-essentialities in my life. I have grown to become more assertive in my search for success, and more ruthless in my disregard for hate, jealousy and envy. I never used to give a #F, now I totally don’t give a #F what anyone has to say about me, my lifestyle, or my life. I am who I am, and the best me is all I can be. If you have a problem with that…

(Quietly lifts a very long middle finger and shows it to the camera. Camera continues to focus on 20-something year old guy, ie. #20_SYOG, as he wraps up his story.)

In my gym session today, one where sweat was my only true companion in the fight for muscle definition, I feel I become a little wiser. As I saw newbies try to outdo each other in lifting heavy weights, laughing at those not strong enough to keep up with the seasoned gym members, I realized that most people project their insecurities in other people. That men are slaves to their egos, and women slaves to their vanity. That conformity is a plague, a cancer. One whose inevitable blow-up is guaranteed, with or without identification of the symptoms. You either live, or you don’t. You either seek, or you won’t find. You either embrace all that comes your way, good and bad, or live your life in eternal disappointment at how things didn’t go your way.

For me and my sweat, we will weather whatever storm that is headed our way. Happiness is what I now seek. No love for materialism will blind me from that goal. From today I look at this wonderful world through the eyes of a child. No dreams will fade into oblivion, and no hopes will be shattered. I want to be the kind of guy that you don’t forget, the one you think about as you gaze at the starry sky on camping trips.

So for all you viewers tuned in to today’s show, please take a listen to Twista’s ‘Wetter’. Learn a few things about how to give it to your man/woman right. How not to stop till she wets up the sheets, and he gives out in a fit of explosions.

Step your sex-game up, and peace out peepz…Oh, sorry. Peace out guys.

(#20_SYOG picks up towel and turns away from the camera. Beads of sweat are still visible on his back, and scene ends as he enters bathroom. Sounds of a running shower are heard.)

[[Fade to black.]]

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s