D: Lightbulb Changing

I sit here wondering&;#8230; 'Why am I writing this?'. A cold
blue screen staring out at me while I sit half naked typing. The room
around me black, a coffee cup sits inactively tempting me to indulge
once more in the caffine induced high of my usual three - three (that's
three heaped coffees and three heaped sugars, in case you wondered, but
then again you probably didn't, did you?).

I do indulge. Still pondering on the same thought 'Why?' I get out of
my uncomfortable desk chair and wander sluggishly up to the kitchen,
yes 'up?' I hear you ask, you see I work in the basement, a hole of a
place but dark, moody, and quiet. Just the way that I like.

Ah ha I hear the critics ask, 'Is this an insight into the authors
personality?' Well no its not actually, you see the basement is just
another figment of an imagination, not mine of course, but the author
of this piece, he is probably just sitting in a boring, dull room
typing, just creating or editing a story that means nothing and is no
way a reflection on his or her personality.

An assumption is all I can make on this subject because all I do and
all I see is as predetermined and as predestined as the author of
myself wishes. How then do I know I'm not real, hold on, I don't, back
to making the coffee I think, all this stuff about what's real and who
I am is getting me down.

I open the kitchen door, a luminescent green light flashes from the
corner of the room, I fumble for the light switch. I am barely able to
make out its smooth round edges and then eventually I find the
triangular prismical switch itself, I push gently until it clicks. A
flash then all goes dark. I hear the hot metal filament snap and tinkle
almost inaudibly onto the glass encasement of the bulb. 'SHIT!' I say
to myself as I stand there closing the door behind me. The only source
of light I have now is that faint glow from the corner, three thirty
three it flashes, incessantly again and again.

My mind wanders and considers the fact of why whoever has or is
writing this, made the bulb go, and has only left me with some shitty
little micrwave timer to go and find another fucking bulb with.
'BASTARD!', I cry, I know he or she heard me, after all he did write
this. Another thought or thoughts, firstly, 'you, yes, you the one
reading this thinks I'm male don't you!, you assumed that from the fact
that I sounded like a male (i.e. swearing lots or even at all for that
matter) and was sitting half naked earlier, well I'm not, in fact my
name is Carrie Stark, and anyway you should of guessed I wasn't male,
because only a female would assume that the creator of myself and the
enviroment around me, would be male, due to the fact of how much of a
bastard he, sorry, it is for putting me in the situation I am now
in.'

'Who are you?' I ask the Typist, ' Why are you writing this?'
Of course no-one answers, no-one ever answers.

My eyes are now becoming attuned to the light, my pupils expanding to
the size of abysses trying to absorb every spare fragment. I slowly
begin to make out the definitions of the cuboid shapes, which I assume
are my kitchen cupboards. I look around, a flash of amber from outside
illuminates the blinds. Light like bars of molten metal pour through
the slits and bounce of chrome plated ripples and protrusions. A
phallic bar hangs menacingly over a pit, a well of unknowing.

'Thank you!' I say to the Typist. 'Thank you for illuminating the sink,
but did you really have to make it sound like it looks like a penis, it
is just a tap for fucks sake!'

I walk slowly over to the where I remember the 'ripples and
protrusions' of the sink were, my eyes just briefly set back from
adjusting to the semi-pitch blackness after the light has now left. I
bend down and quickly open the cupboard door, it somehow smashes
against my knee and knocks me over onto the floor.

'Ha Bloody Ha!, you couldn't have just let me have my dig and get away
with it, could you!'

I fumble around under the sink half expecting some aerosol can or
something heavier to fall onto my head, wondering just how much I have
pissed off the Typist.

'The Typist, did you give me that name? Or is it just your function?,
is someone typing your life onto a computer? Whoa hold on a minute this
is getting just a tad confusing.

Eventually my hand falls upon what I think is a full shrink wrapped set
of bulbs all contained seperately in their individual boxes. I take
them out of the cupboard and take them over to the only light source in
the room, I could on the other hand just wait for more amber flashes at
the window.

'Please,' I ask the typist, 'don't make me wait for the flashes, look
I'm sorry for the dig, you can use any imagery you want from now on and
I won't complain.'

I examine the boxes in the pale green light, half 'sixties' and half
'one hundreds', I tear open the end which contains the hundreds with my
teeth. It is times like these when I wish I could be like most women
and could be bothered to grow my nails, I've bitten them for as long as
I can remember and I just can't seem to break the habit.

I pull out one of the individual boxes and realise that, 'Shit!', this
is fucking shrink wrapped too.

I eventually manage to get the bulb out, a process of basically tearing
the box and shrink wrap to shreds, being careful of course not to smash
the bulb inside. I gently shake the bulb making sure that the filament
in this bulb hasn't gone, it hasn't. 'Thank you Typist!'

I now ponder on the fact of how the fuck I am going to change the
lightbulb in this poxy light. I can just about make out the outline of
the screw-off, glass bowl, type thing, which encapsulates the bulb, so
I decide to just go for it.

I carefully slip the bulb into the elastic of my black satin knickers,
I'll need both hands free to twist the bulb cover off, and besides they
are the only things I am wearing.

I wonder again, as I climb from the floor to the chair, and then from
the chair to the table, if the Typist is male and is actually getting
turned on by imagining my half naked body move rythmically up the
different layers of the kitchen, my breasts bouncing pleasently as I
move, my strawberry blonde hair swaying back and forth across my fair
skinned shoulders and what I would consider as a plain but pretty face.
Ah well, I'll never know, so back to changing the lightbulb.

As I stand on the large supportive oak table I have positioned in the
centre of this kitchen, I slowly twist the opaque goldfish-bowl bulb
cover from its ceiling attatchment, allowing myself to get directly to
the bulb. I forcibly push in and twist out the now defunct bulb and
with it I aim a directed shot at where I assume the bin is and just
hope I get in.

I see the bulb fly in a strobed arc across the kitchen, through the
bank of jade light eminating from the flashing three forty nine and
then coming out as it changes to a flashing three fifty. Then it
becomes lost in an even denser bank of shadow created by the marbleised
work surface above the bin itself. I hear the metal base of the bulb
crash against the back wall behind the bin, 'Shit!', I briefly think,
but then I hear the sound of crashing glass against a muffled metallic
rim, and then I hear the pieces fall into the plastic collective
bag.

A victory, a small and extremely lucky victory, but satisfying all the
same.

I twist in the new one hundred watt bulb into it's receptor with my one
free hand and then screw back into place the opaque bowl with both now
free hands.

I then climb down from the table into the unknown which is the floor,
and then walk back, silently, barefoot, to the light switch and switch
the light on. The same flash of one hundred watts of pure white light
eminates as before but this time it stays on, a constant. My eyes then
flinch from being overwhelmed with this sudden pupil dilating whiteness
and close. I slowly drag my eyelids apart gradually getting them used
to the once dark now light room.

I now see the room in all its white marble glory. Another, this time
dissipated, amber flash rediates from behind the blind and fades as
quickly as it did before leaving the white blinds colder than they were
before.

Just as I satrt to open the door to go out as I remember what it was
that I came up here for, a high, to keep me awake for the next few
hours while I finish writing. 'Writing what?' I here you ask, well you
will just have to wait and find out when you follow me back
downstairs.

I go over to a thankfully full kettle, I doubt I could be bothered to
walk over to the 'penus', sorry tap, to fill the thing up, I flick the
switch and a little red LED comes on. I grab another black mug, like
the one I left downstairs, from the tree. I place it on the work
surface and think, 'Shit!', I've got to go over to the sink anyway and
get a spoon from the cutlery drawer, which of course is below the sink.
I think to muself, 'you're being a bastard again, aren't you!'

Instead of wandering over to the sink I decide to just tip the cofee
and sugar from their individual jars and guess what three - three looks
like. Luckily I don't have to move too far to the fridge to grab the
semi - skimmed milk.

Once the coffee and the sugar have been poured and the milk removed
from the fridge, I drag achair from under the table and sit down. I now
wait for the kettle to boil. As I sit down I realise how comfortable a
chair can be, the high backed cushioned oak chair I am now sitting on
comes classes above the shitty little plastic thing I sit on while
typing downstairs. I only use the one downstairs because it keeps up my
concentration and basically keeps me awake, if it was comfortable all
I'd keep doing is fall asleep in it.

I now sit staring at the kettle for what seems like forever, just
waiting for that moment where the steam starts to rise from the lip of
the jug kettle, and that final moment when the switch flicks up, and
then just as I was thinking about it the red LED switches off, steam
pouring from the spout.

I get up reluctantly from my chair and pour the steaming water into the
mug, I know you shouldn't make coffee with boiling water but fuck it, I
just need the high as quick as possible, and I want it now!

I pour the milk into the steaming, thick, black liquid, which is almost
standing in the mug by itself. I take a biscuit from the barrel next to
me and use this to stir the milk into the coffee, making sure that it
doesn't break off and sink to the bottom. Don't you just hate it when
that happens!

I grab a couple more milk chocolate Hob-nobs from the barrel, and
decide to take myself and them back downstairs.

As I walk down stairs the initial question comes to me again, 'Why am I
writing this?'

As I sit down and glance at the screen, the words becoming clearer and
clearer the harder I stare. After a while I decide to read over what I
have been writing:

"He opens the door to his university bedroom and sits down. A multitude
of multi - coloured LED's flash, and the internal fan kicks in as his
short smooth finger pushes in the POWER button.

His hand moves the mouse to the wordprocessor icon and double clicks
the button. This brings up the blank white page ready to be written
on.

He sits back and ponders on how he should start his piece. So he starts
with a question, 'Why am I writing this?'&;#8230;"

Reading this I begin to think, am I asking the right question in, 'Why
am I writing this?' surely I should be asking 'Am I writing
this?'&;#8230;

The End