A Speculative Memoir
From Ben's Writing
I started writing this is 2007, and I'm surprisingly not to upset at how it started. It's only a small portion of the text, but it seemed worth having in a place that is easily accessible. Keep in mind it needs some serious editing.
The story is about me, many years from now. By then my family and wife have left me, and I’ve gained over 800lbs and grown rather fond of KFC. Well, fond does not quite describe my new found affection for the food. If you’ve ever seen the Seinfeld episode where Kramer gets hooked on the bird, then you only have an inkling of what I’m referring too.
My new addition get so bad that I stop even bothering to bathed or even wash my, what have then become paws, between meal, so my entire house hold slowly becomes coated with a thin to medium coating of grease and honey mustard meddle.
One day, torn about my life, I draw back the shades, to let the day in. What a mistake. The build-up of grease on the window serves as a magnifying glass to focus the light in to a point on a place across the room, which first smokes, then flares a little and then bursts into flames. The years of grease build-up, what should have killed me from the in-side out, and silently in the night, or while walking up some stairs, or while getting excited watching some large breasted woman run across the breach was now killing me from the out-side in. I was burning alive. I shouted in pain, but it was no use, even if anyone could have heard me, no one could have moved me—
Years ago, if I hadn’t mentioned it already, my bed and I had be become part of each other. Not really sure how it, or when it happened, but one day, after years of being in it, I just couldn’t get out of it—literally, just couldn’t get out of it. I was fused to the mattress. I had someone come look and the problem, and they said they could operate, but that I would probably never walk again. I figured it wasn’t changing much of what I had, so I just stayed attached to the bed.
Anyway, so I’m burning alive— My wife left me— My family left me—
It’s probably not all the bad then is it? Well, it is, I actually die. So it’s about as bad as it can get, as far as people go. I also lost all my stuff, which, well, probably isn’t such a bug deal, since, well, I’m dead and all. But hey, it’s still kind of an important thing, you know, if I weren’t dead, so I thought I’d still mention it, for sympathy points.
Of course, if you were to ask, Jacobs and Son's of Michigan, if this were in fact possible, they would tell you it is in fact not. That this is a total fabrication and that anyone telling you otherwise is trying to pull a fast one on you, or some such funny business. But, for our plot to advance any further we will have make this small concession in our story. That this could be the case, then it would be the case: the diamond would appear to be a real diamond, to a sufficiently intoxicated or otherwise moronic or incompetent eye. This is how we find ourselves here, in New York, in a posh downtown jewelry store about to be involved in a very interesting transaction.
