here's another. i don't like the way i wrote the beginning of this, but i like the (true) story. i also remember a couple of people telling me they liked this one in particular, so, here we go. and i like it near the end.
repetition of failure! this was written 04/Oct/05
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more of the same
"i had a lot of things from birmingham that i wanted to write but completely forgot about, and was consequently frustrated. very frustrated. but i remembered one - i went into a guys room. basically, there was an ajoining door between my room and the "executive suite" or some shit like that. i opened my door, and then there was a second door that was, obviously, his door. his connection to the ajoining door-ness of it all. late at night, very late at night, after staring through the massive, pristine, sterile windows at the building opposite (and after trying to work out whether the lost in translation-esque red neons were reflecting off some windows, or if they were above my room, or if they were, indeed, radiating from this prison-like building across the way) for too many hours to count, i drank some coffee, drank some hot chocolate, and then drank some more coffee, and wrote a letter to the cleaner for the next day. i got up and tried the ajoining door. mine opened, as i had control over it - the lock was on my side. i pushed his, and it fucking opened. it opened. i only pushed it with enough force to make it ajar, but it was obvious that it would open all the way if i pushed it. of course, i pulled it shut as quickly and quietly as i could, and jumped back onto the bed, completely with an adrenaline rush pulsing through my arms and chest. fuck, that was probably the most exciting thing that's going to happen in an empty hotel room at 4:00 in the morning. after a while, i drifted off to sleep. actually, that's a lie. i didn't fall asleep. about 20 minutes later, after trying to take my mind of it any way i could - reading a book, reading some of the bible, watching wrestling on the tv (controlled with a keyboard!), watching a bad, bad film on some sky channel, i got up again. i was fucking juiced by this time, high on caffine, sugar, the bible and adrenaline, and the loudest thing in the room really was my heart, beating through my ears. i opened my door, and i was a little nervous that maybe he'd heard my jarring from before, and locked his side. but he hadn't, and i was confident, and i opened it fully. there was a single, compact bag on the table, open, and not much else. there might have been a jacket on the back of a chair. then i heard him sleeping. when i look back, he could've been awake. he could've even been awake when i heard him breathe, but i was pretty sure it was the sound of sleep, while i took a few tentative footsteps round his executive suite. i saw some books on the middle section of a shelf but i couldn't see what they were, buried in shadow, so i took one out. guess what? the books were the complete works of charles dickens. i always wondered what you paid for with an executive suite. at least, i think he was asleep. i went back into my room, and although i didn't sleep, i didn't go back, and watched through the peephole in the morning when i heard him leaving. he was the person you are imagining. the person who occupies the executive suite on all the films, the one who will cause the eventual fall of the capitalist society with his kidney failure and his stress, along with 50,000 other workers/rulers who will fall into the ground on the way to work, work, work. ok, so maybe not the last point, i get carried away. pity i don't get carried away. but, he was the executive. he was the person that this room was designed for, indended for. he is the person who will pick up a dickens novel, and think, yes, i am in touch. i am cultured, and i am high up here. and then he will go to reception and say, i enjoyed the dickens collection, and that he will stay here again. of course, i'm taking the piss a bit here. there is only a 85% chance i could tell all this from his partially opened compack bag and the back of his suit viewed through the skewed eye of the convex peephole, through the skewed eye of this concave youth. maybe he watched me. amy's got a baby in her stomach mike*"
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90 day men - i've got designs on you
