Vain strategies.
Lu's freshly discovered knowledge, that she is not going to fully die just yet, opened up playfulness and a joyful spark in her right eye, which appeared to be nothing more than a white reflection of the snow covering the streets while she was sleeping.
She jumped off the couch with the vitality of a stream rushing towards a river while taking time to twist and turn as it wished. Lu made a few unnecessary spirals to release surplus energy she felt.
Bob was slowly waking up, giving clear indications that he would prefer to stay under the blanket. He didn't enjoy Lu’s surplus of energy, knowing ahead that this could potentially create complications and add an extra load to his account.
First, she spirals upwards and then goes down the drain. She is being too reckless, knowing that my circular and longitudinal muscles will pull her out.
Bob mumbled while stretching. A thought of insecurity briefly crawled into his mind.
Maybe it is the usefulness of my body that she wants?
While Bob was observing unpleasant sensations set in motion by his question, Lu handed him a cookie out of a freshly opened box. As always, Bob couldn't resist the temptation and immediately forgot unsettling question. His tunnel vision was activated, visualizing tingling pleasure awakened by sugar molecules entering his blood.
It was his favorite cookie, 38% real butter, not some kind of cheap replacement that Kenny always had in his house. Bitter suspicious thoughts towards Lu's true intentions were replaced by glorious crumbs, melting flawlessly in his mouth, leaving a long-lasting aftertaste and forming a protective layer from water-soluble constituents.
In one of his lives, Bob was living in a plum that was left to rot under a table in the kitchens of an acknowledged French restaurant. He learned a lot about butter those days.
There was one rule which all the recipes ever made had to follow. The content of butter should not drop below 35% no matter what was prepared. Bob could still remember a secret recipe which made that place famous. Once he heard it, amusement in his boneless body hit his core. It was so ridiculous that towards his death, Bob couldn't hold a secret any longer and decided to leak out classified information to the press. On the back of his mind, he hoped to become famous and score better chances to have a life above under-the-kitchen-table-chic.
One day Bob managed to convince a squad of ants to help him borrow the chef's phone so he could than beat his head upon the buttons and speak the truth. The recipe which was held under protection of a tradition was about to be revealed by a brave worm fueled with implicitly explicit vain tendencies.
As soon as he heard a voice on the other side, Bob put all the effort he had to pump up his volume, squeezing out his most articulated sentences he was secretly rehearsing while sipping his single malt on the egde of a plum.
Hark, thou mysterious stranger, harbinger of the collective mind, thou who molds opinions and fashions desires. Thou art becoming a player in a revelation erstwhile veiled from the world. I have languished through years, daily devoured by doubt, ensnared by secrets, and estranged by knowledge. My life now dances in the grand finale of its blooming, and the readiness to speak is ripe, ready to be plucked and savored.
Beloved potato mash, in its very essence, unveils itself as a butter mash, a revelation contrary to the mere potato.
For a fleeting moment, he discerned a self-enjoyment, born of his dedication to semantic justice. It did impede his pace, yet the obsession with fame swiftly resolved that, reminding him of other commitments his humble mind bore. And thus, he pressed on.
Take quill and parchment, O stranger, grant me the power to shift the scale of thy averageness and insignificance toward remarkable importance and uniqueness. Spread the word, evoke change, let all be informed, and inspire them toward originality. We merit the best each day, not solely once in a lifetime when we can afford this overpriced mesh, laden with debts and existential oscillations.
The formula for profound pleasure is thus:
500 grams of potatoes
500 grams of butter
Salt
I have spoken all now. I shall embrace my fate with dignity and confront what my highest bravery shall bestow upon me. Convey the message to the blessed one who shall carve my image. I harbor a preference for white marble over base bronze. My form shall manifest with exquisite grace in the bottomless whites and dramatic veining of Calacatta marble. And I shall voice no opposition should the sculptor inflate my muscles by a single size; more I can bear. Let him not betray his yearning to explore the mesmerizing beauty of a grand scale. Below the statue, let him engrave in gold serif letters:
"My immortality is living a life worth remembering."
Bob, le Grand.
Bob has reached the culmination of his speech, performing an act of auto-erotism, stroking his ego to the point of cathartic non-return. His ears were blinded as well as his Bob's rolled eyes. Neither he could see that all the ants were long gone nor hear a bright and persistent beep on the other side of the line.
He never got his statue done in this life and he wrongly confused his count and the fact that he was in his #2 coukd explain these megalomaniac drives. He had to die another 5 times before he could psychologically withstand having a statue, without being completely possessed by his smaller vain twin who wanted ti be big.
This flashback to Bob's previous lives took less than a minute but resulted in an abnormal pause in the moment of cookie transaction. Just enough time for Lu's caterpillars to deliver a message from her unconscious.
Maybe it is the usefulness of my body that he wants?
Connecting dots with light speed, hundreds of similar images popped up in her mind, just like accidentally opened documents in preview app on her laptop, filling the screen, living their unstoppable nature.
Her hand, cookie, Bob's mouth. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Nom, Nom, Nom.
How unconditional their friendship actually was. Would Bob stay and pull her out if Lu didn't have the cookies? It unsettled Lu and her spirals changed their direction, showing her dusty world under the sofa. She thought maybe Bob can also die and be forgotten.
A sharp sensation of anticipated separation cut through her chest. She rapidly took out her notebook and wrote down a few sentences that came out as they were sitting in a waiting room for a while, ready to be let into the world.
I am in a loop of addictive conditioned potentiality stitched together with hope. Where is my door to the paradoxical all-encompassing circle of hopeless mystery?
Lu gazed into the lines heavily leaning into the spaces in between, for now, she was not ready yet. She crawled from under the sofa, took discount magazines, and did her usual best deal cookie scouting, for Bob to like her.