TV Dinner Every Night

[failedALIAS]

“. . . SO COME ON OVER TO THE TOPSHOP!”

My hand nearly lurched back as the living room drowned in bright light. Although I let a gasp of air escape, nothing so far had happened to threaten my position. Behind the coffee table, I had little to fear from the box that irradiated much of the floor and walls, and rather, devised how advantageous the light might be. Calming now, I steadied myself to fit the shadows more adequately than when I had crouched, worried then that she’d notice me. Now with a distraction, she was less apt to discover me, and I was free to compose myself if need I wait. I was aware of the detrimental effects a flashing screen could have on a person’s eyes, especially in the dark. If I did slip up-- which I wouldn’t, but let’s just say I did-- then she’d be unable to differentiate between me and a fuzzy blot of eye fluid. She wouldn’t be able to distinguish me, darting from one piece of furniture to another, from a speck of dust who’s shape was visible only through a sunbeam. Surely at an hour so late in the. . .

“WE USED TO HATE GOING ON OUR PATIO, BUT THEN WE GOT THE PATIO-PROTECTOR!”

The blaring of that infernal box was toxic to my mind. An idiot’s delight that appeals to every one of humans’ most base, most loathsome desires. All the while carefully censored so not to upset the needy appetite of its viewers. It would be dealt with soon. Despite my avoidance to waste, I was sure that I would not let a single part be spared in its destruction. I relished the thought, which was then interrupted by the familiar jingle of some reality TV program -- the beast(TV) was careful and clever in its spite. My focus returned to what needed to be done. I would not go through another day of hearing what “delightful” antics so-and-so’s dysfunctional family was up to now, the on-the-side interviews with certain members of the family to hear what they think about what’s-her-face’s attitude-- the personal feelings, once reserved for diaries under lock and key, now broadcast to an audience of millions. I would not go through another embarrassing trip to the grocery store, where I would fill my cart with Hoe-Hoes and Ding-Dongs, buckets of liquid tooth decay, a dozen or so tubs of icecream, and the double-sized corndogs. Shoving this pile to the counter, fearing they would look upon my mountain of packaged death and then see me, the toothpick who could hardly find clothes his size, and wonder if I was hosting a party, or the caretaker for a very large, shameless, sweet-toothed whale. But of course, when I arrived at the counter they wouldn’t bat an eye. Why would they? The carts are twice the size they were five years ago! I didn’t partake in the consumption of any store-bought goods, relying only on my personal garden for sustenance, where I knew no one could put any fructose corn syrup.
I needn’t suffer much longer. The weedwacker is in my sweaty hand, which feels so very cold and distant. My head feels light; my scalp itches; my mouth is dry, and then I hear it. I hear gagging. It is so different than the pampered, the toned sounds of the screen, and I like it even less. There was no buildup and there is no climax. Awkwardly, it goes from one minute to the next, then stops. On the television there is a child crying, his sobs sound familiar, but I don’t know how.
I get up. When I do, my own shadow is added to the wall, seperate now from its cover amongst others. The wall is colored with the lights from the screen. The boy’s face is almost projected on the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling, and on me. I can now see the large flatscreen, and in front of it is the reclining chair. I walk over to it, so to stand over her. She is slouched in its soft cushions, her head pulled back so that it faces the ceiling. Both eyes are wide open, unblinking. I nudge her, hoping to get her attention. She doesn’t respond. The TV hasn’t stopped with the child crying, and my mind plays back as I remember another time like this.
It was also night then, however, not as late as tonight. We are in the same places: her in the chair, me by its side. I was nudging her leg-- smaller then, this was the best I could do-- tears stained my cheeks.
“Please, there monster in room-- in closet. Please!”
She didn’t move. She didn’t so much as pry her eyes from the screen-- which was also smaller then. My earliest memory, and yet it paints a perfect picture of every day since then. Even now:

I’m still nudging her.

She still doesn’t move.

The boy is still crying. He can’t stop.

[wubwub]

funny

[Froge]

first person perspective?

als pls

[failedALIAS]

first person perspective?

als pls

Bring it on, mother-fluffer!