*Living Room*
To the east lies the hallway.
To the west lies the balcony.
To the north lies the kitchen.
(To the south, the wide, wild world.) - Upon using keys.
[West]
The world. It's all.... there. Cars drive past below you, people are in various domestic poses... hanging out the washing, retrieving the washing, buckling a child into a seat.
It's warm, and the breeze only serves to move the warmth around.
[Look]
You are on the balcony. A small outdoor setting with two chairs is here, along with a handful of dead potplants.
The floor is littered with water-swollen cigarette butts. At some stage, you guess it was raining.
A pack of cigarettes sits on the table, along with a lighter.
[Look at potplants]
Long dead potplants. Potentially a fire hazard.
Occasionally something new will grow - with no input from you. Some bizarre phoenix or... sea monkey effect.
And then, inevitably, it will die. And the cycle will begin anew.
Now that you have observed it, you feel an obligation to leave the potplants alone. They seem to have a system going. Better that you don't interfere.
[Look at setting]
A table, two chairs. An empty coffee cup. A long-finished candle.
A pack of cigarettes and a lighter sit on the table. You hope they have avoided the morning dew.
[Look at cigarettes]
A pack of cigarettes. Tax rise after tax rise has driven them to inflationary prices, but fortunately their intrinsic value still exceeds their economic value.
One day the moral panic will subside, and migrate toward the too-deserving realm of liquor. Then it will be your turn to laugh.
[Look at lighter]
A plain, black, plastic lighter. You peeled the warning label off long ago. Come to think of it... there are very few labels that can survive more than three minutes with you.
[Use cigarettes]
Probably not now. It's too early. Better to save it until you need it.
[Take cigarettes]
You take the cigarettes. Nobody can hurt you now - not any more than you can hurt yourself.
[Take lighter]
You take the lighter. Who knows - if everything goes fubar, you can always burn it to the ground.
[East]
Showing posts with label Episode 1. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Episode 1. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Episode One: Kitchen
*Living Room*
To the east lies the hallway.
To the west lies the balcony.
To the north lies the kitchen.
(To the south, the wide, wild world.) - Upon using keys.
[North]
Ah, the kitchen. The domestic nerve centre of the modern home.
A place for the modification and refinement of one form of caloric conveyance into another.
It sounds almost like some noble form of engineering.
...Until you see the ultimate result.
You try to spend as little time as possible here.
[Look]
You are in a mid-90s apartment kitchen. No larger than it need be. Near-completely constructed from plywood and veneer.
A refrigerator stands in the corner... vibrating.
The counter is lined with vitamins and supplements.
You cat sits atop the microwave, looking out the window. She doesn't acknowledge your presence.
The living room lies to the south.
[Look at vitamins]
Uppers, downers, bloopers, tinglers.
Not so much.
You've got your Fish Oils, your multivitamins, your additional Iron and Vitamin C.
You've got your experimental vitamins, your testosterone boosters, your 'energy enhancers'.
If you've got to suffer through this business, you'll suffer through it at peak efficiency.
[Use vitamins] - Adds [Your Enthusiasm] to inventory.
You take the vitamins. One or two or three of each of them. Swallowing them in handfuls with gulps of water direct from the faucet.
Well... you've done something. Whether it is good or bad, that remains to be seen.
Chew on a bit of newspaper, eat a spoonful of honey, and that'll about complete your dietary needs for the day. Theoretically.
[Use vitamins]
You doubt your heart could take any more vitamins. The B-12 alone threatens to blow the valves clean off that purple dynamo.
[Look at refrigerator]
You don't remember where you got it... you certainly didn't buy it. You'd sooner wrap a wooden box in wet hessian that go refrigerator shopping.
[Open refrigerator]
The refrigerator is open. Rejoice.
[Close refrigerator]
The refrigerator is closed.
[Open refrigerator]
The refrigerator is open. Rejoice.
[Look at refrigerator]
The refrigerator contains an array of condiments.... some milk... various half-opened tins, and a single apple.
[Look at apple]
A red apple. You don't know apple names. Some are red, some are green... maybe one is yellow. But they are all self-contained fructose-delivery systems of various states of deliciousness.
[Take apple]
You take the apple. It's cold. You have no idea why it was in the refrigerator.
[Use apple]
It's too early to eat. You need to keep light and agile in order to be prepared for the surprise attacks that lay in wait just outside your door.
Who will ambush you today??
The breeders?
The elderly?
The cripples?
The dark?
The light?
The hungry?
The obese?
Time will tell.
[Look at milk]
Of all the animal secretions in the world, you most enjoy milk.
You easily consume over a litre a day.
Have you ever seen a cow? They are enormous.
Is this correlated to milk? You are unsure.
But you aren't taking any chances.
[Use milk]
You take a long gulp of milk. Your stomach now feels adequately-lined. Thankyou, distant bovine friend. You have sustained me for another day.
[Use milk]
You are satisfied. Don't risk becoming over-satisfied. You may accidentally start a family or get a mortgage.
And that is one small step away from blowing your brains out in a department store changing room.
[Look at cat]
She is a good cat. Pretty by cat standards. White and orange and brown and black. A tortoiseshell.
Her stomach is disproportionately large compared to her body - a feature with its root in her ability to scratch your eyelids as you sleep unless you provide her with food.
She seems to be watching birds out the window. You certainly can't see them. But you trust that they are there.
[Pat cat] - adds [Your Charms] to inventory.
You pat the cat. She makes an unhappy noise but doesn't acknowledge your attention.
The tip of her tail begins to move back and forth, and you believe you have reached the tolerance limit for patting this cat.
[Pat cat]
You've probably given her enough attention for one sitting. One day her claws will hit a vein or such, and then it will be a bigger deal than just blotting out the blood with toilet tissue and ignoring it.
[South]
To the east lies the hallway.
To the west lies the balcony.
To the north lies the kitchen.
(To the south, the wide, wild world.) - Upon using keys.
[North]
Ah, the kitchen. The domestic nerve centre of the modern home.
A place for the modification and refinement of one form of caloric conveyance into another.
It sounds almost like some noble form of engineering.
...Until you see the ultimate result.
You try to spend as little time as possible here.
[Look]
You are in a mid-90s apartment kitchen. No larger than it need be. Near-completely constructed from plywood and veneer.
A refrigerator stands in the corner... vibrating.
The counter is lined with vitamins and supplements.
You cat sits atop the microwave, looking out the window. She doesn't acknowledge your presence.
The living room lies to the south.
[Look at vitamins]
Uppers, downers, bloopers, tinglers.
Not so much.
You've got your Fish Oils, your multivitamins, your additional Iron and Vitamin C.
You've got your experimental vitamins, your testosterone boosters, your 'energy enhancers'.
If you've got to suffer through this business, you'll suffer through it at peak efficiency.
[Use vitamins] - Adds [Your Enthusiasm] to inventory.
You take the vitamins. One or two or three of each of them. Swallowing them in handfuls with gulps of water direct from the faucet.
Well... you've done something. Whether it is good or bad, that remains to be seen.
Chew on a bit of newspaper, eat a spoonful of honey, and that'll about complete your dietary needs for the day. Theoretically.
[Use vitamins]
You doubt your heart could take any more vitamins. The B-12 alone threatens to blow the valves clean off that purple dynamo.
[Look at refrigerator]
You don't remember where you got it... you certainly didn't buy it. You'd sooner wrap a wooden box in wet hessian that go refrigerator shopping.
[Open refrigerator]
The refrigerator is open. Rejoice.
[Close refrigerator]
The refrigerator is closed.
[Open refrigerator]
The refrigerator is open. Rejoice.
[Look at refrigerator]
The refrigerator contains an array of condiments.... some milk... various half-opened tins, and a single apple.
[Look at apple]
A red apple. You don't know apple names. Some are red, some are green... maybe one is yellow. But they are all self-contained fructose-delivery systems of various states of deliciousness.
[Take apple]
You take the apple. It's cold. You have no idea why it was in the refrigerator.
[Use apple]
It's too early to eat. You need to keep light and agile in order to be prepared for the surprise attacks that lay in wait just outside your door.
Who will ambush you today??
The breeders?
The elderly?
The cripples?
The dark?
The light?
The hungry?
The obese?
Time will tell.
[Look at milk]
Of all the animal secretions in the world, you most enjoy milk.
You easily consume over a litre a day.
Have you ever seen a cow? They are enormous.
Is this correlated to milk? You are unsure.
But you aren't taking any chances.
[Use milk]
You take a long gulp of milk. Your stomach now feels adequately-lined. Thankyou, distant bovine friend. You have sustained me for another day.
[Use milk]
You are satisfied. Don't risk becoming over-satisfied. You may accidentally start a family or get a mortgage.
And that is one small step away from blowing your brains out in a department store changing room.
[Look at cat]
She is a good cat. Pretty by cat standards. White and orange and brown and black. A tortoiseshell.
Her stomach is disproportionately large compared to her body - a feature with its root in her ability to scratch your eyelids as you sleep unless you provide her with food.
She seems to be watching birds out the window. You certainly can't see them. But you trust that they are there.
[Pat cat] - adds [Your Charms] to inventory.
You pat the cat. She makes an unhappy noise but doesn't acknowledge your attention.
The tip of her tail begins to move back and forth, and you believe you have reached the tolerance limit for patting this cat.
[Pat cat]
You've probably given her enough attention for one sitting. One day her claws will hit a vein or such, and then it will be a bigger deal than just blotting out the blood with toilet tissue and ignoring it.
[South]
Episode One: Living Room
*Hallway*
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[West]
Ah, the living room. Commonly referred to as the 'lounge room'. But it doesn't feel correct to call it that. You barely use the 'lounge'. Which you call a 'couch'.
Until now, you didn't realise what a linguistic trap your living room was.
There are little flecks of paper everywhere. Notes, the corners of envelopes, bills in uncertain stages of payment.
Windows cover one entire wall, floor to ceiling. The room is customarily at the extreme of the weather. From what you gather about the furnace you are standing in - it will be a warm day.
[Look]
You are in the living room. Curtains cannot stop the assault of the day here. It is bright.
A pile of clothes is draped over an armchair.
Your mobile phone sits on the floor.
A pile of hastily-opened envelopes sits on the table.
Your wallet is in front of the television.
The front door is here. Stoic. Silent. Locked.
To the east lies the hallway.
To the west lies the balcony.
To the north lies the kitchen.
(To the south, the wide, wild world.) - Upon using keys.
[Look at couch]
It's a fairly standard couch. Blue. Covered in cat fur. The arms have been adequately ripped up by the multitudinous scratching of claws.
Your forearms can vouch for the effectiveness of sharpening claws via armrest.
Definitely.
[Use couch]
You sit on the couch. You try folding your legs beneath you. You lie down. You prop one leg on the top. You sit on the armrest.
Nope. You just don't get the allure.
[Use couch]
You tried. You failed. Better to leave that one to the philosophers.
[Look at clothes]
You get a definite color scheme vibe from the pile. High contrast. All roughly in the same color range.
Black, white, red, grey.
Purple for boxer shorts.
Your public-image costume is woven in there somewhere.
[Use clothes]
You carefully extract your costume. Suit jacket. Button-up. Trousers. The freshest pair of socks you can muster. A belt.
You don't know how they became so tightly integrated with the rest of the pile - seeing as you haven't touched the other clothes in a while.
Mystery of the universe.
[Use clothes]
Sir Edmund Hillary you are not. You've got your costume. Better to leave that business to the professionals.
[Look at costume]
A basic suit/shirt/slacks get-up. You're sure to fool 99% of people with this business.
The trick is to wear it like you're naked. And thus have nothing to lose.
Self-destructiveness is the inverse path to confidence.
The other is skill. But that requires constant, careful maintenance... and what are you - a doctor?
[Use costume] - (the office is now open)
You pull on the slacks, button up the shirt, throw on your jacket... after many false-starts, you thread your belt through the waistband.
You work your feet into the socks, and buckle yourself into a pair of barely-functional leather shoes.
Tread softly.
An carry a big stick.
[Use costume]
You could get naked - dance around - feel the cool breeze against your skin.
But you'd still be you. The rest is just denial.
[Look at phone]
It's your phone. It dings when you have email. It dings when you have a message. It subjects you constantly to the whim of any barely-sentient ape with access to oppose-able thumbs.
And that's exactly why you got it.
The time is currently [the time].
[Use phone]
You have: 2 new emails.
Email 1: Did you know that you could get some form of super-special deal on some rewards card that you registered for on a complete whim, for a service you never use?
Well... you can.
Email 2: Hello. How are you? I am fine. Events happened. Anecdote of import. Notification of desire to 'catch up'. Sign off. Friends name.
You aren't sure which one was generated via template.
[Use phone]
No new messages. No new emails. Nothing but a 2/3rds full battery bar and the possibility of tapping into a vast network of dynamic information.
[Take phone]
You take the phone, with a little fancy flip - catching it between two fingers by the top.
You don't know who you are impressing - but you're certain they're damned impressed.
[Look at envelopes]
You hate mail. Every day, in every way - some whore is trying to wet their beak.
In some weird type of Pavlovian-conditioning - your anxiety levels shoot through the roof at even the sight of an address.
There's something under the pile - something irregularly-shaped.
[Use envelopes]
You brush the envelopes to the floor and kick them into a corner. Ahh... they were obscuring your keys.
[Use envelopes]
They're dead now. They can't hurt you, or anybody else.
Their authors, however... will need to be taken care of.
[Look at keys]
Your keys. A purely utilitarian affair. You keep a pair of nail clippers on your keyring - and insist that they are must-have.
Nobody seems to believe you. But once you have seen a slightly-too-long thumbnail, you cannot un-see a slightly-too-long thumbnail.
And it will eat you up inside.
[Take keys]
You take your keys. The percussive jingling is quite soothing.
[Use keys] - you can now exit: South
The front door is now prepped for thoroughfare. You spin your keyring around like a trick-shooter, and make a subtle pose.
[Look at wallet]
The masculine of the handbag.
It is crammed with the evidence of your participation in petty commerce.... along with a small amount of cash... and proof of your identifying statistics as a functioning member of society.
[Take wallet]
You take your wallet. Ahh... a little bit of money... a little bit of power.
[Use wallet] - creates cash in Inventory, creates identification in Inventory.
You open the wallet and take stock of your financial situation. Enough cash to tolerate a day of standard events with a chaos-variance of maybe... five-percent.
[Look at cash]
Cash. You won't count it. You aren't a shopkeep.
[Look at identification]
Is that who I am???
I guess that is who you are.
Mr. Hunter Fielding.
Date of birth: 12th March, 1982.
License type: Full - standard vehicle.
Organ donor: Most definitely not. Most positively not.
The photo is certainly of you... but you feel cheated that your existence is somehow summarised by four lines.
[Look at television]
Flat-screened. Black. Of moderate size. You barely use it. But tomorrow they could make it illegal to scoff at the proletariat - and you know for sure they won't send you a courtesy email to notify you of the change.
So you mount your tele-screen, and let them talk incessantly at you.
[Use television]
You turn the television on and scroll about the free-to-air channels. All of the children's cartoons are in 3D now. Nothing 2D. Nothing fun. It seems like everybody is having and enjoying a dramatic adventure.
You can't think of anything worse to start the day than a heaping helping of drama.
You have a tenuous grasp on the metre of your heartbeats as it is.
[Use television]
You've been there. It was a disappointment. A niche hobby. This television thing will never catch on.
[Look at windows]
A sprawling suburban vista. The sun, the clouds, the delicate haze of pollution, some leaves, television antennae... it's got it all. Talk about your attention to detail.
The brief: Sir, I need a scene that I can look at for decades and never find anything of interest.
The reviews: A triumph!
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[West]
Ah, the living room. Commonly referred to as the 'lounge room'. But it doesn't feel correct to call it that. You barely use the 'lounge'. Which you call a 'couch'.
Until now, you didn't realise what a linguistic trap your living room was.
There are little flecks of paper everywhere. Notes, the corners of envelopes, bills in uncertain stages of payment.
Windows cover one entire wall, floor to ceiling. The room is customarily at the extreme of the weather. From what you gather about the furnace you are standing in - it will be a warm day.
[Look]
You are in the living room. Curtains cannot stop the assault of the day here. It is bright.
A pile of clothes is draped over an armchair.
Your mobile phone sits on the floor.
A pile of hastily-opened envelopes sits on the table.
Your wallet is in front of the television.
The front door is here. Stoic. Silent. Locked.
To the east lies the hallway.
To the west lies the balcony.
To the north lies the kitchen.
(To the south, the wide, wild world.) - Upon using keys.
[Look at couch]
It's a fairly standard couch. Blue. Covered in cat fur. The arms have been adequately ripped up by the multitudinous scratching of claws.
Your forearms can vouch for the effectiveness of sharpening claws via armrest.
Definitely.
[Use couch]
You sit on the couch. You try folding your legs beneath you. You lie down. You prop one leg on the top. You sit on the armrest.
Nope. You just don't get the allure.
[Use couch]
You tried. You failed. Better to leave that one to the philosophers.
[Look at clothes]
You get a definite color scheme vibe from the pile. High contrast. All roughly in the same color range.
Black, white, red, grey.
Purple for boxer shorts.
Your public-image costume is woven in there somewhere.
[Use clothes]
You carefully extract your costume. Suit jacket. Button-up. Trousers. The freshest pair of socks you can muster. A belt.
You don't know how they became so tightly integrated with the rest of the pile - seeing as you haven't touched the other clothes in a while.
Mystery of the universe.
[Use clothes]
Sir Edmund Hillary you are not. You've got your costume. Better to leave that business to the professionals.
[Look at costume]
A basic suit/shirt/slacks get-up. You're sure to fool 99% of people with this business.
The trick is to wear it like you're naked. And thus have nothing to lose.
Self-destructiveness is the inverse path to confidence.
The other is skill. But that requires constant, careful maintenance... and what are you - a doctor?
[Use costume] - (the office is now open)
You pull on the slacks, button up the shirt, throw on your jacket... after many false-starts, you thread your belt through the waistband.
You work your feet into the socks, and buckle yourself into a pair of barely-functional leather shoes.
Tread softly.
An carry a big stick.
[Use costume]
You could get naked - dance around - feel the cool breeze against your skin.
But you'd still be you. The rest is just denial.
[Look at phone]
It's your phone. It dings when you have email. It dings when you have a message. It subjects you constantly to the whim of any barely-sentient ape with access to oppose-able thumbs.
And that's exactly why you got it.
The time is currently [the time].
[Use phone]
You have: 2 new emails.
Email 1: Did you know that you could get some form of super-special deal on some rewards card that you registered for on a complete whim, for a service you never use?
Well... you can.
Email 2: Hello. How are you? I am fine. Events happened. Anecdote of import. Notification of desire to 'catch up'. Sign off. Friends name.
You aren't sure which one was generated via template.
[Use phone]
No new messages. No new emails. Nothing but a 2/3rds full battery bar and the possibility of tapping into a vast network of dynamic information.
[Take phone]
You take the phone, with a little fancy flip - catching it between two fingers by the top.
You don't know who you are impressing - but you're certain they're damned impressed.
[Look at envelopes]
You hate mail. Every day, in every way - some whore is trying to wet their beak.
In some weird type of Pavlovian-conditioning - your anxiety levels shoot through the roof at even the sight of an address.
There's something under the pile - something irregularly-shaped.
[Use envelopes]
You brush the envelopes to the floor and kick them into a corner. Ahh... they were obscuring your keys.
[Use envelopes]
They're dead now. They can't hurt you, or anybody else.
Their authors, however... will need to be taken care of.
[Look at keys]
Your keys. A purely utilitarian affair. You keep a pair of nail clippers on your keyring - and insist that they are must-have.
Nobody seems to believe you. But once you have seen a slightly-too-long thumbnail, you cannot un-see a slightly-too-long thumbnail.
And it will eat you up inside.
[Take keys]
You take your keys. The percussive jingling is quite soothing.
[Use keys] - you can now exit: South
The front door is now prepped for thoroughfare. You spin your keyring around like a trick-shooter, and make a subtle pose.
[Look at wallet]
The masculine of the handbag.
It is crammed with the evidence of your participation in petty commerce.... along with a small amount of cash... and proof of your identifying statistics as a functioning member of society.
[Take wallet]
You take your wallet. Ahh... a little bit of money... a little bit of power.
[Use wallet] - creates cash in Inventory, creates identification in Inventory.
You open the wallet and take stock of your financial situation. Enough cash to tolerate a day of standard events with a chaos-variance of maybe... five-percent.
[Look at cash]
Cash. You won't count it. You aren't a shopkeep.
[Look at identification]
Is that who I am???
I guess that is who you are.
Mr. Hunter Fielding.
Date of birth: 12th March, 1982.
License type: Full - standard vehicle.
Organ donor: Most definitely not. Most positively not.
The photo is certainly of you... but you feel cheated that your existence is somehow summarised by four lines.
[Look at television]
Flat-screened. Black. Of moderate size. You barely use it. But tomorrow they could make it illegal to scoff at the proletariat - and you know for sure they won't send you a courtesy email to notify you of the change.
So you mount your tele-screen, and let them talk incessantly at you.
[Use television]
You turn the television on and scroll about the free-to-air channels. All of the children's cartoons are in 3D now. Nothing 2D. Nothing fun. It seems like everybody is having and enjoying a dramatic adventure.
You can't think of anything worse to start the day than a heaping helping of drama.
You have a tenuous grasp on the metre of your heartbeats as it is.
[Use television]
You've been there. It was a disappointment. A niche hobby. This television thing will never catch on.
[Look at windows]
A sprawling suburban vista. The sun, the clouds, the delicate haze of pollution, some leaves, television antennae... it's got it all. Talk about your attention to detail.
The brief: Sir, I need a scene that I can look at for decades and never find anything of interest.
The reviews: A triumph!
Episode One: Bathroom Continued
[Look at toothbrush]
The bristles are well-worn - and flange outward. Although given the Amazonian orientation of your teeth - it's barely a surprise.
It's purple. That's your favorite color. Fun fact.
[Look at toothpaste]
An almost-full tube of toothpaste. When you squeeze it, the toothpaste comes out in three stripes - blue, green and white.
You slept at somebody's house once and remember that their toothpaste came out all green... and it chilled you to the very core.
[Look at razor]
Three blades, for maximum comfort. You saw an advertisement for a four-blade razor recently.
Eventually, it will be a perfect sphere of razors and lubricating strips, and you'll have to bounce it off the bathroom wall and let it slide over your face to get:
"The closest shave you have ever experienced".
[Look at shaving cream]
You just wanted shaving cream. Nothing that smelled like anything. Nothing that did anything. It should just cushion the application of razor-to-skin.
This is close. It comes out as foam. It doesn't smell like anything in particular.
But you regard it with suspicion nonetheless.
[Look at mirror]
You have no idea how to clean a mirror. If you did, you might. As it is - after every shower, you take one wet hand and force a moderately clean streak down the middle of the mirror.
[Use mirror]
There you are. You assume. You are always hesitant to regard that doppelganger as you.
You don't remember getting so old. And you certainly don't feel so tired. And you're concerned with how bloodshot that eye is getting.
You straighten your hair a little. Re-orient your eyebrows.
There. Sense of self: Achieved.
[Use mirror]
You know who you are.
Plus, you're slightly frightened that if you use the mirror again, you'll see somebody entirely different. And you don't have the tolerance or motivation required to re-orient yourself to a whole new sense of self.
The bristles are well-worn - and flange outward. Although given the Amazonian orientation of your teeth - it's barely a surprise.
It's purple. That's your favorite color. Fun fact.
[Look at toothpaste]
An almost-full tube of toothpaste. When you squeeze it, the toothpaste comes out in three stripes - blue, green and white.
You slept at somebody's house once and remember that their toothpaste came out all green... and it chilled you to the very core.
[Look at razor]
Three blades, for maximum comfort. You saw an advertisement for a four-blade razor recently.
Eventually, it will be a perfect sphere of razors and lubricating strips, and you'll have to bounce it off the bathroom wall and let it slide over your face to get:
"The closest shave you have ever experienced".
[Look at shaving cream]
You just wanted shaving cream. Nothing that smelled like anything. Nothing that did anything. It should just cushion the application of razor-to-skin.
This is close. It comes out as foam. It doesn't smell like anything in particular.
But you regard it with suspicion nonetheless.
[Look at mirror]
You have no idea how to clean a mirror. If you did, you might. As it is - after every shower, you take one wet hand and force a moderately clean streak down the middle of the mirror.
[Use mirror]
There you are. You assume. You are always hesitant to regard that doppelganger as you.
You don't remember getting so old. And you certainly don't feel so tired. And you're concerned with how bloodshot that eye is getting.
You straighten your hair a little. Re-orient your eyebrows.
There. Sense of self: Achieved.
[Use mirror]
You know who you are.
Plus, you're slightly frightened that if you use the mirror again, you'll see somebody entirely different. And you don't have the tolerance or motivation required to re-orient yourself to a whole new sense of self.
Episode One: The Bedroom, The Hallway, The Bathroom, The Spare Room
You are awake. It is Tuesday. The date? You can't remember. Definitely not pay-day. Not your birthday. Not Christmas. Unlikely Easter.
Your mouth is thick with sleep, and your stomach churns as acid sucks hungrily at its lining.
Good morning, world.
You're going to have to get through this one. One way - or another.
And tomorrow you will think the same thing.
And - the day after.
Repeat. Ad nauseam.
And then in some glorious deus ex machina - something amazing will happen and it will all become meaningful.
Yes. That's exactly what's going to happen.
To meditate, and ponder the range of available actions in life - request [Help]
[Help]
The world is a large and seemingly-complex place... that can be navigated by a few simple, repetitive, depressing actions.
To cast your lofty gaze upon the meaningless of it all, summon [Help].
To pat your pockets and take stock of your empire, invoke [Inventory].
To summarise the bizarre and swirling mass of obscure objects that confront you, you must [Look].
And, having seen - you must [Use] these things in order to bend them to your will.
Conversely - channel your inner rodent, and [Take] what you desire. You are - what you own!
To investigate a discrete object with the patience, care and obsessive-clutching of a methed-out watchmaker - simply [Look] at the thing. All will be revealed.
Implement some sort of sick Venn-modifications, and [Use] one item on another.
But remember ... the world is a broad affair. Sometimes you may have to [Kill], sometimes you may have to [Love] - but above all... you must [Triumph].
[Look]
You are in a beige room. The whole affair is... off-white.
The morning sun leaks in through the gap in the curtains.
An alarm clock provides a rusty, irritating percussion.
The bed is like some seething vortex of body fluids and minute particles of skin and hair. Your love for it is... disturbing at best.
To the north lies the hallway.
[Look at curtains]
The curtains are... fittingly... a tan color. You didn't buy them. You didn't hang them. They were here when you got here. And if they were burnt horribly tomorrow, you probably wouldn't replace them. Modesty has an effective radius. Yours is thirty feet.
[Use curtains]
You throw the curtains aside. The grandiose movement directly contrasts your shabby attire.
The light streams into the room. Outside, red brick building swell sickeningly across the vista.
[Use curtains]
They're as open as they're going to get. Plus, every touch sends out a cloud of dust. Better to minimize contact.
[Look at alarm clock]
You don't remember setting the time, or the alarm. If the power goes out, you'll probably just rely on your body clock. Or find a spouse to wake you up.
The numbers are composed of red lines. You've lost countless hours of sleep attempting to spell words with the lines.
Once you discovered that - if turned ninety-degrees - the time looked like a man with a beard - or a bow-tie - or glasses... and it freaked you royally out.
[Use alarm clock]
You haphazardly press buttons. Their labels have long since faded. The alarm stops. A minor success.
It is quiet now, but for the tittering of birds and the rushing of gray-water through distant drainpipes.
[Use alarm clock]
You hit some buttons but don't achieve much.
[Look at bed]
The bed is not off-white. It is not brown. You don't remember the motivation, or the action - but at some stage you bought an Asian-esque bedding set. You can't read the writing... nor do you know if the characters are Chinese... Korean... Japanese...
The whole acquisition likely stemmed from some perverted mid-afternoon dream.
But all-in-all, it's the most stylish thing in your house.
And that fact is depressing.
[Make bed]
You throw the covers about mindlessly. Somehow - stasis is achieved.
The bed has been silenced. Neutered. It sits in silent, defeated geometry. You feel as if you have destroyed something beautiful.
[Make bed]
You can't do anything more with the bed. You've heard of something called 'hospital corners' but you have no idea what that means.
[North]
The hallway is a strange entity. Oft-travelled, seldom-analysed. You have propped yourself against its doorframes ... cast your discarded clothing on its floor... but you don't think you could identify it given a collection of similar hallways.
[Look]
You are in the hallway. The walls are cream-coloured and cold.
The floor has been swept-clean by lazy footsteps.
A crooked hanging on the wall depicts a Japanese fisherman in front of a mountain. The lack of perspective bothers you.
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[Use hanging]
You straighten the wall-hanging. The newly-angled lines are no more sensible than previously.
A piece of oriental artwork hangs on the wall. The lack of depth or scale bothers you. That fisherman is going to have a heck of a time conquering that quantum nightmare.
[Use hanging]
The hanging is already straight. And you feel you would destroy the fabric of space by manipulating those bizarre lines any further.
[North]
The bathroom - a high-volume, high-tenure room in any household. Here is no exception. Whether it is pressing your skull into the tiles beneath the steaming showerhead, or digging ingrown hairs from your face with a safety-pin, this room has been the focal point of nearly all of your philosophical crises.
[Look]
You are in the bathroom. Brown tiles mostly cover the floor. Where tiles fail, gray grout triumphs.
The shower stands in the corner. It knows. And you know it knows.
The basin has two taps and a substantial amount of grime.
A mirror hangs above the basin, its edges slightly obscured by old shaving cream and soap residue.
The toilet is to your left.
A toothbrush rests on the basin.
A tube of toothpaste balances on the edge of the vanity.
A razor is perched in a filthy glass.
A can of shaving cream has fallen to the floor.
To the south - the hallway.
[Look at shower]
You have spent a disproportionate amount of time in this shower. The showerhead only reaches the base of your neck, but you've made an art of bending backward to rinse your hair.
[Use shower]
You take a hot shower.
You think about... nothing.
Or more... you attempt to think about nothing.
In reality... you obsess over the events of the previous day.
Before your minute failures and social faux-pas' drive you to a fatal anxiety attack, the water turns cold, and you dry yourself off.
[Use shower]
You don't feel much like an ice-cold shower. You doubt your heart could take it.
[Look at basin]
Consistently... world over... the basin is a disgusting place. Toothbrushes laying in puddles of dark water. Hair. Scum. Discolored cotton buds.
This is, predictably, no exception.
[Use basin]
You wash your face, rinse your mouth, scrub your nails and generally attempt to add a bit of sparkle to the whole affair.
[Use basin]
You're just distributing the dirt around now. There's a golden dirt-to-cleanliness ratio - and you're right at the intersection.
[Use toothbrush]
You clean your teeth. It never really feels like the day has started until you do that. Though you often wonder exactly what is dirtying your teeth during the alleged incapacitation of sleep.
[Use toothbrush]
Cleaning your teeth too much is bad for the enamel. Apparantely.
[Use toothpaste]
You take a mouthful of toothpaste and swish it around a bit. You don't feel much fresher.
[Use toothpaste]
With all the chalk and... freshness in that stuff, you barely want to aim it near your face, let alone risk repeated exposure to it.
[Use toothpaste on toothbrush]
You put the toothpaste on your toothbrush. You wonder if - in the bathroom accessories world... that is some sort of euphemism.
A pasted-toothbrush sits on the bench. You are concerned that the weight will drag it face-down into that thin layer of dirty water.
[Look at pasted-toothbrush]
It's all pasted-up and ready to go. You think you see a twinge of enthusiasm ripple through it. But that could be the lack of calories talking.
[Use pasted-toothbrush]
You lead a frenzied assault on plaque... bacteria... oral communism... all forms of mouth undesireables.
You feel like some form of bathroom Conan.
[Use pasted-toothbrush]
You are spent. This must be how Napoleon felt. Give the reported size of his meals - his tooth cleaning regime may have rivalled yours.
[Use razor]
You run the razor over your face, cultivating that - 'I haven't shaved today but I did shave recently' feel.
[Use razor]
You're tripping perilously close to vivisection as it is, hombre. Better put the shiv down.
[Use shaving cream]
Your put the shaving cream on your face and heat the razor under the tap. You hear a lot of talk about a 'lather' but you've no idea how to achieve it, or what it is. You imagine that pearl of wisdom is acquired from the Father. Ah - the glory of the modern family structure.
A warm razor sits on the basin. That ought to bring those stubborn hairs down to a manageable size.
[Look at warm razor]
Visibly, the razor is the same as it was before. Experience tells you that it should be hot now. But your eyes... they can't judge that. You're getting some severe sensory dissonance - look away!
[Use shaving cream]
You imagine that foaming behavior is achieved by dangerous gases. Potentially of ex-military applications. Better to leave it.
[Use warm razor]
You want to say... the razor slides through your stubble like a knife through butter.
And it would be true - it would - bar for the fact that the razor is months old, and has sliced well above its allotment of hairs.
At best, it forces the hair into grudging submission. The hair - along with your skin - your nerve endings - and your motivation.
[Use warm razor]
The ordeal is over - lets not repeat it until entirely necessary.
[Use toilet]
You sit - and you feel your body lighten. You stare at the floor, the wall, the roof...
Some sort of Zen trance has overtaken you. It's like being on some form of fecal pilgrimage.
You flush the toilet and make a vain effort to shield the basin from invisible airborne germs. But the lazy flailing of your arms betrays the futility of it all.
[Use toilet]
It's a relaxing, but fundamentally unpleasant experience. Let's not manufacture any fetishes, my dear.
[South]
*Hallway*
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[East]
The spare room was intended to be your sanctuary; the place where you could close the door and enter some Buddhist-styled trance and magically achieve all of your unrelated goals.
Of course, this didn't occur.
[Look]
The curtains in the spare room are perpetually open - and the whole affair has the cold and sterile feel of a new car.
A crowded bookshelf rests beside the window.
A set of free weights is in the middle of the room - and a flat-bench covered with expired employment contracts runs along the wall.
Three guitars are propped against the wall - in various states of string-ed-ness.
To the west is the ubiquitous hallway.
[Look at bookshelf]
When you just can't resist your O.C.D any longer - you organise and re-organise this bookshelf. Today - the books are arranged by tone, subject and your personal rating.
You're sure if you explored a bit - you would find a book you feel like reading.
[Use bookshelf] - adds [Your Brain] to inventory
You gradually scan each shelf - left to right. The disembodied plot highlights of a hundred books bust your synapses wide open.
You find a book! This is the book - you're sure of it.
[Look at book]
The book is titled 'Silas Marner' - by some individual named George Eliot. You've never read any of his books before - but you're feeling adventurous.
[Take book]
You take the book. Along with passing the time, it will assure that you look intellectual to any potential mates. All of your books have passed your own harsh cover-verification testing.
That is: Will the cover of this book look ridiculous if read in public?
[Use bookshelf]
The book-hunting process is a long and tiring affair. You doubt your tired vessels could handle another.
[Use book]
You don't have time to read it now. Even if you did - it would feel weird to just sit and read when there are so many other things to do.
[Look at weights]
Two dumbells and one barbell, along with a handful of weight plates. At one stage - your worked out nightly. Then you got a gym membership - and it became thrice-weekly. Now you write endless workout plans that you never follow.
Progress!
[Use weights] - Adds [Your confidence] to inventory.
You do a few uninspired arm curls - some shoulder presses. You stand on your toes and precariously lower yourself into a squat.
It feels good to get a little blood flowing.
But bittersweet that the cortisol and the seething anger will likely degenerate your muscles to the point of being thin black strands of pure organic hatred.
[Use weights]
You aren't tired, but you also aren't motivated. Maybe one day. When you get your diet right. When your sleep pattern is stable. When you aren't as busy.
Maybe - one - day.
[Look at guitars]
A long time ago you learned how to put together a few chords... a pentatonic minor scale... and gained the capacity to grow facial hair... and all of this aligned to make you believe that you were some breed of musician.
Well, here is the result of that. And clinically - you can still understand the compulsion to collect these ultimately-pointless articles.
And then... there's always that obsession with wood. You see raw wood... you must have it.
Only one of the guitars is in a playable state. It's a Fender Telecaster Thinline. Dual humbuckers. Semi-hollow body. You're so frightened of breaking it that you barely play it.
[Use guitar]
You pick out a rambling tune up and down the A Pentatonic minor scale... You've been favoring the same sequence of notes for nearly four years now.
You wish your knowledge of music theory was more advanced... and you toy with the idea of buying a book about it... but you know you'll only do it if that cute individual is working behind the counter at the bookstore.
And you haven't seen them in a while.
[Use guitar]
You're barely sustaining the illusion of aptitude here. You don't think your self-esteem could handle the strain of justifying your deviations from consonance.
[West]
*Hallway*
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
Your mouth is thick with sleep, and your stomach churns as acid sucks hungrily at its lining.
Good morning, world.
You're going to have to get through this one. One way - or another.
And tomorrow you will think the same thing.
And - the day after.
Repeat. Ad nauseam.
And then in some glorious deus ex machina - something amazing will happen and it will all become meaningful.
Yes. That's exactly what's going to happen.
To meditate, and ponder the range of available actions in life - request [Help]
[Help]
The world is a large and seemingly-complex place... that can be navigated by a few simple, repetitive, depressing actions.
To cast your lofty gaze upon the meaningless of it all, summon [Help].
To pat your pockets and take stock of your empire, invoke [Inventory].
To summarise the bizarre and swirling mass of obscure objects that confront you, you must [Look].
And, having seen - you must [Use] these things in order to bend them to your will.
Conversely - channel your inner rodent, and [Take] what you desire. You are - what you own!
To investigate a discrete object with the patience, care and obsessive-clutching of a methed-out watchmaker - simply [Look] at the thing. All will be revealed.
Implement some sort of sick Venn-modifications, and [Use] one item on another.
But remember ... the world is a broad affair. Sometimes you may have to [Kill], sometimes you may have to [Love] - but above all... you must [Triumph].
[Look]
You are in a beige room. The whole affair is... off-white.
The morning sun leaks in through the gap in the curtains.
An alarm clock provides a rusty, irritating percussion.
The bed is like some seething vortex of body fluids and minute particles of skin and hair. Your love for it is... disturbing at best.
To the north lies the hallway.
[Look at curtains]
The curtains are... fittingly... a tan color. You didn't buy them. You didn't hang them. They were here when you got here. And if they were burnt horribly tomorrow, you probably wouldn't replace them. Modesty has an effective radius. Yours is thirty feet.
[Use curtains]
You throw the curtains aside. The grandiose movement directly contrasts your shabby attire.
The light streams into the room. Outside, red brick building swell sickeningly across the vista.
[Use curtains]
They're as open as they're going to get. Plus, every touch sends out a cloud of dust. Better to minimize contact.
[Look at alarm clock]
You don't remember setting the time, or the alarm. If the power goes out, you'll probably just rely on your body clock. Or find a spouse to wake you up.
The numbers are composed of red lines. You've lost countless hours of sleep attempting to spell words with the lines.
Once you discovered that - if turned ninety-degrees - the time looked like a man with a beard - or a bow-tie - or glasses... and it freaked you royally out.
[Use alarm clock]
You haphazardly press buttons. Their labels have long since faded. The alarm stops. A minor success.
It is quiet now, but for the tittering of birds and the rushing of gray-water through distant drainpipes.
[Use alarm clock]
You hit some buttons but don't achieve much.
[Look at bed]
The bed is not off-white. It is not brown. You don't remember the motivation, or the action - but at some stage you bought an Asian-esque bedding set. You can't read the writing... nor do you know if the characters are Chinese... Korean... Japanese...
The whole acquisition likely stemmed from some perverted mid-afternoon dream.
But all-in-all, it's the most stylish thing in your house.
And that fact is depressing.
[Make bed]
You throw the covers about mindlessly. Somehow - stasis is achieved.
The bed has been silenced. Neutered. It sits in silent, defeated geometry. You feel as if you have destroyed something beautiful.
[Make bed]
You can't do anything more with the bed. You've heard of something called 'hospital corners' but you have no idea what that means.
[North]
The hallway is a strange entity. Oft-travelled, seldom-analysed. You have propped yourself against its doorframes ... cast your discarded clothing on its floor... but you don't think you could identify it given a collection of similar hallways.
[Look]
You are in the hallway. The walls are cream-coloured and cold.
The floor has been swept-clean by lazy footsteps.
A crooked hanging on the wall depicts a Japanese fisherman in front of a mountain. The lack of perspective bothers you.
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[Use hanging]
You straighten the wall-hanging. The newly-angled lines are no more sensible than previously.
A piece of oriental artwork hangs on the wall. The lack of depth or scale bothers you. That fisherman is going to have a heck of a time conquering that quantum nightmare.
[Use hanging]
The hanging is already straight. And you feel you would destroy the fabric of space by manipulating those bizarre lines any further.
[North]
The bathroom - a high-volume, high-tenure room in any household. Here is no exception. Whether it is pressing your skull into the tiles beneath the steaming showerhead, or digging ingrown hairs from your face with a safety-pin, this room has been the focal point of nearly all of your philosophical crises.
[Look]
You are in the bathroom. Brown tiles mostly cover the floor. Where tiles fail, gray grout triumphs.
The shower stands in the corner. It knows. And you know it knows.
The basin has two taps and a substantial amount of grime.
A mirror hangs above the basin, its edges slightly obscured by old shaving cream and soap residue.
The toilet is to your left.
A toothbrush rests on the basin.
A tube of toothpaste balances on the edge of the vanity.
A razor is perched in a filthy glass.
A can of shaving cream has fallen to the floor.
To the south - the hallway.
[Look at shower]
You have spent a disproportionate amount of time in this shower. The showerhead only reaches the base of your neck, but you've made an art of bending backward to rinse your hair.
[Use shower]
You take a hot shower.
You think about... nothing.
Or more... you attempt to think about nothing.
In reality... you obsess over the events of the previous day.
Before your minute failures and social faux-pas' drive you to a fatal anxiety attack, the water turns cold, and you dry yourself off.
[Use shower]
You don't feel much like an ice-cold shower. You doubt your heart could take it.
[Look at basin]
Consistently... world over... the basin is a disgusting place. Toothbrushes laying in puddles of dark water. Hair. Scum. Discolored cotton buds.
This is, predictably, no exception.
[Use basin]
You wash your face, rinse your mouth, scrub your nails and generally attempt to add a bit of sparkle to the whole affair.
[Use basin]
You're just distributing the dirt around now. There's a golden dirt-to-cleanliness ratio - and you're right at the intersection.
[Use toothbrush]
You clean your teeth. It never really feels like the day has started until you do that. Though you often wonder exactly what is dirtying your teeth during the alleged incapacitation of sleep.
[Use toothbrush]
Cleaning your teeth too much is bad for the enamel. Apparantely.
[Use toothpaste]
You take a mouthful of toothpaste and swish it around a bit. You don't feel much fresher.
[Use toothpaste]
With all the chalk and... freshness in that stuff, you barely want to aim it near your face, let alone risk repeated exposure to it.
[Use toothpaste on toothbrush]
You put the toothpaste on your toothbrush. You wonder if - in the bathroom accessories world... that is some sort of euphemism.
A pasted-toothbrush sits on the bench. You are concerned that the weight will drag it face-down into that thin layer of dirty water.
[Look at pasted-toothbrush]
It's all pasted-up and ready to go. You think you see a twinge of enthusiasm ripple through it. But that could be the lack of calories talking.
[Use pasted-toothbrush]
You lead a frenzied assault on plaque... bacteria... oral communism... all forms of mouth undesireables.
You feel like some form of bathroom Conan.
[Use pasted-toothbrush]
You are spent. This must be how Napoleon felt. Give the reported size of his meals - his tooth cleaning regime may have rivalled yours.
[Use razor]
You run the razor over your face, cultivating that - 'I haven't shaved today but I did shave recently' feel.
[Use razor]
You're tripping perilously close to vivisection as it is, hombre. Better put the shiv down.
[Use shaving cream]
Your put the shaving cream on your face and heat the razor under the tap. You hear a lot of talk about a 'lather' but you've no idea how to achieve it, or what it is. You imagine that pearl of wisdom is acquired from the Father. Ah - the glory of the modern family structure.
A warm razor sits on the basin. That ought to bring those stubborn hairs down to a manageable size.
[Look at warm razor]
Visibly, the razor is the same as it was before. Experience tells you that it should be hot now. But your eyes... they can't judge that. You're getting some severe sensory dissonance - look away!
[Use shaving cream]
You imagine that foaming behavior is achieved by dangerous gases. Potentially of ex-military applications. Better to leave it.
[Use warm razor]
You want to say... the razor slides through your stubble like a knife through butter.
And it would be true - it would - bar for the fact that the razor is months old, and has sliced well above its allotment of hairs.
At best, it forces the hair into grudging submission. The hair - along with your skin - your nerve endings - and your motivation.
[Use warm razor]
The ordeal is over - lets not repeat it until entirely necessary.
[Use toilet]
You sit - and you feel your body lighten. You stare at the floor, the wall, the roof...
Some sort of Zen trance has overtaken you. It's like being on some form of fecal pilgrimage.
You flush the toilet and make a vain effort to shield the basin from invisible airborne germs. But the lazy flailing of your arms betrays the futility of it all.
[Use toilet]
It's a relaxing, but fundamentally unpleasant experience. Let's not manufacture any fetishes, my dear.
[South]
*Hallway*
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[East]
The spare room was intended to be your sanctuary; the place where you could close the door and enter some Buddhist-styled trance and magically achieve all of your unrelated goals.
Of course, this didn't occur.
[Look]
The curtains in the spare room are perpetually open - and the whole affair has the cold and sterile feel of a new car.
A crowded bookshelf rests beside the window.
A set of free weights is in the middle of the room - and a flat-bench covered with expired employment contracts runs along the wall.
Three guitars are propped against the wall - in various states of string-ed-ness.
To the west is the ubiquitous hallway.
[Look at bookshelf]
When you just can't resist your O.C.D any longer - you organise and re-organise this bookshelf. Today - the books are arranged by tone, subject and your personal rating.
You're sure if you explored a bit - you would find a book you feel like reading.
[Use bookshelf] - adds [Your Brain] to inventory
You gradually scan each shelf - left to right. The disembodied plot highlights of a hundred books bust your synapses wide open.
You find a book! This is the book - you're sure of it.
[Look at book]
The book is titled 'Silas Marner' - by some individual named George Eliot. You've never read any of his books before - but you're feeling adventurous.
[Take book]
You take the book. Along with passing the time, it will assure that you look intellectual to any potential mates. All of your books have passed your own harsh cover-verification testing.
That is: Will the cover of this book look ridiculous if read in public?
[Use bookshelf]
The book-hunting process is a long and tiring affair. You doubt your tired vessels could handle another.
[Use book]
You don't have time to read it now. Even if you did - it would feel weird to just sit and read when there are so many other things to do.
[Look at weights]
Two dumbells and one barbell, along with a handful of weight plates. At one stage - your worked out nightly. Then you got a gym membership - and it became thrice-weekly. Now you write endless workout plans that you never follow.
Progress!
[Use weights] - Adds [Your confidence] to inventory.
You do a few uninspired arm curls - some shoulder presses. You stand on your toes and precariously lower yourself into a squat.
It feels good to get a little blood flowing.
But bittersweet that the cortisol and the seething anger will likely degenerate your muscles to the point of being thin black strands of pure organic hatred.
[Use weights]
You aren't tired, but you also aren't motivated. Maybe one day. When you get your diet right. When your sleep pattern is stable. When you aren't as busy.
Maybe - one - day.
[Look at guitars]
A long time ago you learned how to put together a few chords... a pentatonic minor scale... and gained the capacity to grow facial hair... and all of this aligned to make you believe that you were some breed of musician.
Well, here is the result of that. And clinically - you can still understand the compulsion to collect these ultimately-pointless articles.
And then... there's always that obsession with wood. You see raw wood... you must have it.
Only one of the guitars is in a playable state. It's a Fender Telecaster Thinline. Dual humbuckers. Semi-hollow body. You're so frightened of breaking it that you barely play it.
[Use guitar]
You pick out a rambling tune up and down the A Pentatonic minor scale... You've been favoring the same sequence of notes for nearly four years now.
You wish your knowledge of music theory was more advanced... and you toy with the idea of buying a book about it... but you know you'll only do it if that cute individual is working behind the counter at the bookstore.
And you haven't seen them in a while.
[Use guitar]
You're barely sustaining the illusion of aptitude here. You don't think your self-esteem could handle the strain of justifying your deviations from consonance.
[West]
*Hallway*
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
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