It’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t even turn the lights on anymore. From the minute he walks in the door to the minute his eyes fall closed the only light is the incandescent glow of the television screen and the only voices heard come from speakers mounted on the walls, surrounding him like an external consciousness. Men who are stronger and slimmer and more talented than him tell him where he should eat, what he should drink, what kind of women he should date, what electronics he should buy...
All the while he becomes acutely aware of his flesh--the way his belly sits in his lap and how his muscles are hidden under ever storing lipids. It’s as if all these characters are leaning over his still body, that’s strapped to a chair, staring intently at his exposed brain. And they proceed to probe it: Dr. House telling him he’s unintelligent, Tom Brady telling him he’s weak, The Bachelor reminding him he is alone, and the televangelists screaming that he’s headed straight for Hell. And he starts to think he is. So he prays himself to sleep wondering if the anesthesia will ever wear off and asking if it is possible that he can ever be more than a couch potato.
I like the distancing effect of calling the character "he" -- maybe re-think the last line. The style of it doesn't seem to match with the rest of the story to me. Perhaps the phrase "couch potato" is at odds with how polished/articulate the rest of the narration is?
ReplyDeleteYeah, I agree with you. I think the story was going in a strange direction and to have something so familiar and cliche kind of throws it off. Thank you.
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