you can read me like a book
I like to narrate my own existence. In the third person. And slightly film noir.

Just now, as I returned from the shop, a little voiceover in my head said something along the lines of:
"She walked the cracked and buckled pavement home from the shop. The rain slid from her eyelashes like tears".

That kind of crap.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 14 Mar 2008, 13:10, 9 replies)

click.
He clicked 'I like this'. The satisfying, tiny little noise of the mouse reverberating in the silent office. Silent, but for the clicking of a mouse somewhere. He wept.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 14 Mar 2008, 14:14, closed)

^
She laughed, a throaty chuckle that sounded like music in the cold, damp kitchen.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 14 Mar 2008, 14:21, closed)

heh
i do the same, except i imagine i'm an old man writing an autobiography about my life
(ewe, Fri 14 Mar 2008, 14:47, closed)

The man in the black shirt also clicked, though he felt unoriginal in doing so, as others had already clicked before him. Still, he derived a smug sense of power upon imagining an electrical impulse traveling halfway 'round the world as a result of his simple motion. He glanced over to the other monitor...progress bar still at 70%.

He edits his response to note that his own inner dialogue is different than she had described. Instead, he usually imagines himself accompanied by someone from the distant past, and explains the wonders of the "car" and "radio" and "car radio" to his invisble yet dumbfounded companion. Perhaps he should have mentioned this last week.
(chase, Fri 14 Mar 2008, 15:08, closed)

he paused
to stroke his beard; gazing into the middle distance in contemplation.

should he jump on the bandwagon?

the decision was made. yes he should

*clicks*
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Fri 14 Mar 2008, 15:13, closed)

I know the feeling.
She wore red shoes by the drugstore
As the rain splashed the nickel
Spilled like chablis along the midway
Theres a little bluejay
In a red dress, on a sad night...

Actually, I like Waits better than Bukowski... but they're both rather awesome.

EDIT: now you've gotten me into a noir mood. Have "Nirvana" by Bukowski as your reward...

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the wat to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
foreward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 14 Mar 2008, 17:11, closed)

oooh
Thank 'ee kindly - Bukowski kicks ass, though I'm a huge, HUGE Waits fan too. In fact, my internal narrator has just changed voice and sounds like he smokes 40 a day in a blues bar with Marc Ribot playing behind him.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 14 Mar 2008, 19:59, closed)

Yeah... time for the ol' Raindog...
Well it's 9th and Hennepin
And all the donuts have
Names that sound like prostitutes
And the moon's teeth marks are
On the sky like a tarp thrown over all this
And the broken umbrellas like
Dead birds and the steam
Comes out of the grill like
The whole goddamned town is ready to blow.
And the bricks are all scarred with jailhouse tattoos
And everyone is behaving like dogs.
And the horses are coming down Violin Road
And Dutch is dead on his feet
And the rooms all smell like diesel
And you take on the
Dreams of the ones who have slept here.
And I'm lost in the window
I hide on the stairway
I hang in the curtain
I sleep in your hat
And no one brings anything
Small into a bar around here.
They all started out with bad directions
And the girl behind the counter has a tattooed tear,
One for every year he's away she said, such
A crumbling beauty, but there's
Nothing wrong with her that
$100 won't fix, she has that razor sadness
That only gets worse
With the clang and thunder of the
Southern Pacific going by
As the clock ticks out like a dripping faucet
Till you're full of rag water and bitters and blue ruin
And you spill out
Over the side to anyone who'll listen
And I've seen it
All through the yellow windows
Of the evening train.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 14 Mar 2008, 20:32, closed)

I clicked
...'I like this', wondering, as I did so, whether a third-person narrative would be more or less enjoyable than my own introverted and verbose first-person version. I'm not sure why I bothered with the question - after all, I'd been at it for nearly twenty years: it was never going to change now.
(miffytherabbit, Mon 17 Mar 2008, 23:16, closed)