Question: When has it officially become painfully obvious that Scribe is restless and desperately seeking a way to find answers and has most likely started to lose it?
Answer: When he finds himself in the toy aisle of a department store consulting a fucking magic eight ball for answers to his various dilemmas and doesn’t find that to be even remotely pathetic.
That wasn’t a joke. It really happened. And for just a moment, I wondered if the responses I received from the eight-ball were accurate. It sure as hell didn’t give me answers to anything current that was incorrect. Not even once. In fact, it seemed hesitant to answer certain questions, especially in the arena of love and relationships. By contrast, it seemed all too willing to tell me when I was going to die.
I’m a pretty relentless questioner as anyone who knows me can attest. I’m not obnoxious and pushy like some I could name, but I can be rather insistent when I feel answer is required. I will take no for an answer, but no answer is a different story when it comes to me.
So the Magic Eight-ball never had a chance when it met me. It’s probably in therapy now, pouring out its die cast plastic heart to some erudite Rubik’s Cube about the psychotic maniac who wouldn’t take “It is unclear” as an answer!
Therefore, despite EFB’s whiney protestations, I remained in the aisle and badgered that poor Eight ball for some answers.
It didn’t start out that way. The eight ball seemed cooperative at first, more than willing to provide answers via its fuzzy screen. Perhaps it was intrigued because my questions were so direct and skipped all preliminaries. Perhaps it was too innocent to see what I would eventually ask. Or perhaps it’s just a fucking toy and all the responses were random and in no way the result of anything more than the sheer insanity currently residing in my noggin!
Like I said, old Scribe cuts right to the chase. None of my questions were spoken aloud, either. Partly this was due to the fact that I was in a public place, but also it was because I had this weird feeling that I could achieve more meaningful results by thinking instead of talking. The first question I asked was one you probably wouldn’t expect me to ask at all:
“Have I met the love of my life?”
Magic Eight Ball said, “Yes.”
“Is she currently in my life?” I didn’t dare say any names.
“Yes.”
“Will we ever be together?”
“It is unclear.”
“Will we ever be together?”
“Ask me again sometime.”
“Will we ever be together?”
“Most likely not.”
I smiled without humor. Even the eight ball knows things about me that should be obvious to everyone. I asked:
“Does my first love still love me?”
“Yes.”
“Will I ever see her again?”
“It is decidedly so.”
Really? Wouldn’t that be interesting, to say the least? Not the reply I was expecting…wait! Was I actually placing credence in this inaminiate object? This toy??? I decided to ask it something less serious:
“Do I have more than ten years to live?”
“Yes.”
Answer: When he finds himself in the toy aisle of a department store consulting a fucking magic eight ball for answers to his various dilemmas and doesn’t find that to be even remotely pathetic.
That wasn’t a joke. It really happened. And for just a moment, I wondered if the responses I received from the eight-ball were accurate. It sure as hell didn’t give me answers to anything current that was incorrect. Not even once. In fact, it seemed hesitant to answer certain questions, especially in the arena of love and relationships. By contrast, it seemed all too willing to tell me when I was going to die.
I’m a pretty relentless questioner as anyone who knows me can attest. I’m not obnoxious and pushy like some I could name, but I can be rather insistent when I feel answer is required. I will take no for an answer, but no answer is a different story when it comes to me.
So the Magic Eight-ball never had a chance when it met me. It’s probably in therapy now, pouring out its die cast plastic heart to some erudite Rubik’s Cube about the psychotic maniac who wouldn’t take “It is unclear” as an answer!
Therefore, despite EFB’s whiney protestations, I remained in the aisle and badgered that poor Eight ball for some answers.
It didn’t start out that way. The eight ball seemed cooperative at first, more than willing to provide answers via its fuzzy screen. Perhaps it was intrigued because my questions were so direct and skipped all preliminaries. Perhaps it was too innocent to see what I would eventually ask. Or perhaps it’s just a fucking toy and all the responses were random and in no way the result of anything more than the sheer insanity currently residing in my noggin!
Like I said, old Scribe cuts right to the chase. None of my questions were spoken aloud, either. Partly this was due to the fact that I was in a public place, but also it was because I had this weird feeling that I could achieve more meaningful results by thinking instead of talking. The first question I asked was one you probably wouldn’t expect me to ask at all:
“Have I met the love of my life?”
Magic Eight Ball said, “Yes.”
“Is she currently in my life?” I didn’t dare say any names.
“Yes.”
“Will we ever be together?”
“It is unclear.”
“Will we ever be together?”
“Ask me again sometime.”
“Will we ever be together?”
“Most likely not.”
I smiled without humor. Even the eight ball knows things about me that should be obvious to everyone. I asked:
“Does my first love still love me?”
“Yes.”
“Will I ever see her again?”
“It is decidedly so.”
Really? Wouldn’t that be interesting, to say the least? Not the reply I was expecting…wait! Was I actually placing credence in this inaminiate object? This toy??? I decided to ask it something less serious:
“Do I have more than ten years to live?”
“Yes.”
Disappointing. “Do I have twenty years to live?”
“Yes.”
Great. Two more decades of this shit? “Do I have more than 20 years to live?”
”No.”
Maybe there is a God after all. I decided to go for broke. “Does the love of my life love me, too?”
“It is unclear.”
“Does the love of my life love me, too?”
“It is unclear.”
I didn't ask again. The magic eight ball had just unveiled the story of my life in brief, concise and unemotional sentences. I felt worse than I had when I picked it up. Fucking ball. How dare it tell me what I already knew about myself? Still, I forgot to ask it the most vital question. The question I have been asking in various ways since I was old enough to question anything of substance:
“WHY?”
I guess I was afraid of what the eight ball would tell me~
“Yes.”
Great. Two more decades of this shit? “Do I have more than 20 years to live?”
”No.”
Maybe there is a God after all. I decided to go for broke. “Does the love of my life love me, too?”
“It is unclear.”
“Does the love of my life love me, too?”
“It is unclear.”
I didn't ask again. The magic eight ball had just unveiled the story of my life in brief, concise and unemotional sentences. I felt worse than I had when I picked it up. Fucking ball. How dare it tell me what I already knew about myself? Still, I forgot to ask it the most vital question. The question I have been asking in various ways since I was old enough to question anything of substance:
“WHY?”
I guess I was afraid of what the eight ball would tell me~
7 comments:
I saw some emo kids at the walmart the other day doing the same thing....then they all headed over to the housewares section and commenced to cut themselves with plastic butter knives. I asked them what was wrong and they said "nothing-just bored".
Also reminds me of a saying a friend of mine has about a mutual friend of ours "she has so many diseases none of them life threatening".
walmart, meijers, costco, kmart, all the same thing...
emo,punk,goth,feminists,suburbanites,all the same thing...all afflicted horribly, with what no one can say, it's not life threatening though (too bad).
which leads to another saying i have told said friend about someone else who is not a mutual friend, useless people live forever.
Why don't you just admit that there is nothing wrong with you?
You are just a regular ass white/black guy with a nice (not great) vocab and great (not nice) writing craftsmanship with which to convey your wild imagination.
Anon, you sound wise beyond your years...nwrlqonw
Filing this one under "Scribe's Most Misinterpreted Blog Entries."
reminds me of the scene in "Toy Story" when Woody knocks the magic 8 ball behind the dresser and ends up knocking Buzz Lightyear out the window and into the bushes.
This reminded me of myself this winter while i was at home. My cousin had gotten my nephew one of those.. i forget the name but it's a hand-held game, and you basically have a word in mind, and it "asks" you a series of questions in order to figure out the word. I tried and tried for hours (literally) to trick it and was addicted to the point that I was admittedly crazy.
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