User:Shabidoo/Magazine
The soft pages of my magazine caress my finger prints and whisper fashion tips while I quiff into the toilet. I never dog ear the pages...as I am against periodical cruelty. You see me and my magazine are like two lonely strangers on a greyhound bus...we need each other to realise our alienation...and our beautiful glossy shine.
I remember the first night I slept with my magazine. It was the 1998 spring/autumn/boxing-day special toe nail accessory edition. It was then I realised how much I took my toe nails for granted and I begged them forgiveness...both to my toenails and to the magazine...for being so unworthy...an unworthy reader...and an unworthy owner of toenails.
The smell of the magazine when I first met it...was intoxicating...I spent hours breathing the fumes of freshly pressed glossiness and I remember after huffing it up my nose...the feeling of bouncing on top of a toxic field of grass and melting unicorn babies. Over time the smell coming from my magazine evolved. It started to smell like my hair, and then my skin, and then my quiffs and once in a while like my brothers stink. Tearing the pages apart was a duty I did not enjoy...but was done out of respect towards the magazine...defiled by my evil brother. I thought a couple times about giving my magazine an honour killing after a particularly brutal violation by my brother. It took me all night to peel apart the pages and wash it clean. But there was something so special...and resilient about the magazine. I just couldn't slit it's throat or stone it.
My magazine would give me a summary of what it was...on its third page. Its very essence...its soul...crudely labelled a table of contents. Ill never forget when I saw the first line on that table...the first content...I shed a tear of surprise and hostility. There was an interview with Michael Jackson about using eye-liner as a tool to paint toe-nails. Obviously...for so many reasons...this was a sad sad moment in the history of magazines and a tragedy for my particular magazine. I still shed a smaller tear of hostility every time I think about the existence of table of contents and I utterly ball when I see this article slipped into the delicate innocent bindings of my magazine. There's a picture of Michael Jackson's toe (fungus and all) with a tar black layer of eye liner in the form of a happy face. While his white dilapidated skin was beautiful and the shape of the toes were divine...his toe nails seemed tortured and hurt. Those toenails deserve better and I have never looked at that article since without having to drink very hot and strong tea out of my Harry Potter tea cup.
I have lunch with my magazine once a week...whichever day we are both available. I like to go to trendy places and as a vegetarian I don't enjoy grill houses...but my magazine is pretty intolerant of alternative life styles and insists that wherever we go there must be sausages and doughnuts. My magazine does not like the Korean waitress at the hotdog bistro near my house...so we often have to take a taxi to a more expensive place in a different part of town. My magazine is always short of money so I must cover for it all the time. I don't mind though...because I know my magazine is going to get its big break soon and I know my caring and love for it will come back to me.
My magazine and I can spend a lot of time together in the same room without feeling the need or pressure to fill the silence and say something just for the sake of saying something. In fact my magazine practically never speaks, never says a word. It barely moves unless I pick it up or flip the pages. My magazine likes having its pages flipped. The sensation of flipping them for me is like rubbing a kitten’s tummy only groovier...like your're making love while you are both bouncing up and down on a trampoline...after you've found out your best friend's sick child in the hospital is going to be okay. Sometimes I turn my magazines pages just so it can feel that way. It makes me feel good that my magazine is content. We spend so much time on my wife-sofa just being together it's as though we were both born to just cuddle up together after work, resist the urge to dyke out and just be BFFs even though I'm an organic and the magazine is a non-speaking inanimate paper product!
One day I had broken my coffee table and there just happened to be an Ikea catalogue handy. I don't know who on Earth planted it in my apartment because there was only room for one magazine and it was my beloved. I started looking at the Östrakarg line of new lampshades (which are actually coffee tables somehow) which were all the rage at the moment in the world of higher end Scandinavian sleek design that can be assembled with a 5 cent jerry key. Just as I was deciding between the 800$ Flippen-flop table top or the 900$ Floppity-flurp conceptual coffee tablette...my beloved magazine walked into the room and caught me red handed...reading the words of another glossy page, unashamedly handling it...all done on the very sofa where we first met. I could not have felt more ashamed...it was so humiliating that I avoided my beloved magazine for weeks hoping the whole promiscuous disaster with die out and be forgotten. But just as I made an overture, my magazine stopped answer all of my calls. I got more and more desparate and had to stoop to more and more degrading acts to try and get its attention.