The Workout

The room is bare and still, waiting for a life to saturate it with character--perhaps pictures marring the perfect blankness of the walls, or maybe clothes and shoes strewn haphazardly on the wooden floor. But no books crease the folded bedsheets, and dust decides to linger in the corners.

She enters, carrying nothing in her hands but a music player. The door is locked. Gauzy white curtains shield the room from the world. It's safe to begin.

A button is pressed, and music soars into the room. The room gasps and spins. A pirouette, a leap, a moonwalk and suddenly it no longer staid green-and-white.

It is in the arms of a gallant Spaniard with fire in his fine dark eyes as they samba through the night.

It is fighting red-coated men, armed with only a cutlass and a heart of valor.

It is dressed to the nines, swinging and boogieing amongst country-club peers.

It is slowly shedding its skin, lace and leather and string, feeding on the excitement of lonely, hungry eyes.

The music stops.

She wipes the sweat off her brow and looks about the room with a wistful kind of sadness. The door thuds closed behind her, and it is ivory and mint once more.

The room is bare and still.

Mordant Coffee
I confess--I haven't gotten around to making this a real blog. As of right now, it's crap (if I may say so). Blog layout and other such superficialities aside, what concerns me is the content. I have three other online journals (that are active) besides this, and each with their own sets of audiences and personalities.
This is another attempt at hiding in plain sight. But, I ask myself, what sort of entries will I write here? Originally I had planned venting all my repressed anger and inevitable neurotic breakdown in this blog. Mordant, dark. Coffee, a bitter and far too addicting beverage. But whenever I'm feeling those 'beauty in a breakdown' moments, I'm far from internet access. By the time I can rage in private, those emotions are lost, and replaced by chipmunk optimism.
Aside. That might be a good thing. I'm leery of ever being called 'emo'. That word deserves a whole other post, though. End aside.
I don't know. I don't know what I'll be writing here, though I'm leaning towards sardonic, pretentious witticisms. I don't know if I'll be writing in my native language--probably not, since I'm hopelessly inept in grammar. Heck, I don't even know if there's going to be an audience.

The point? Stick around. I might surprise myself, too.

A question that has been plaguing me all day:
Do I ooze with responsibility? Is that why people find it in them to saddle me with these new position? Or is it that I'm so-called rich-girl? Or, by some chance, they've discovered my neurotic compulsion to do everything when I'm assigned a task, despite my inherent laziness?
Cue not-quite-verbose gargling.

Here's another thought. Romance novels are, as we know, formulaic to the point that you can predict the ending just from the back cover (unless, of course, the back cover features the glammed-up authoress with too-bright smiles and big hair). The time-travel ones are rather typical as well; modern century you-go-girl woman gets deposited into the hands of a Fabio-esque laird or English lord. Stuff happens. Smutty stuff happens. And then, invariably, either she tearfully bids her lover goodbye (but meets the reincarnation/descendant in the future), or somehow manages to stay in the past.
But, dude. They're all white.
I'm not saying this to be racist, mind you. However, what IF the 21st century gal was Black, or Chinese, or (heaven forbid) Filipino? Interesting, then, where she'd might end up.
Personally, if it was me I'd look for Illustrados in an instant.


Hn.

Yay for pretentiously scintillating wit.