Scratch

i cried a thousand tears

oh god please
don't :''''''''((((((((((( <///////3

yay
therapist

“. . .and that’s why I feel so miserable all the time,” the telemarketer said with a face void of anything akin to misery, or anything at all really. He glanced at the therapist for a reaction. There was none.
“I just don’t understand any of it,” he went on. “Why we’re all rushing madly about like tiny ants and I’ve got to sell canned peas. Who cares about canned peas? Only I do.”
Further silence from the therapist.
“Aren’t you listening?” the telemarketer snapped finally.
“Sorry, yes. Go on.”
“Because that’s what I do, you know? It’s what I went into. It was my lifelong dream.”
“You mentioned that.”
“But no one else cares. It doesn’t concern them. It’s like life. What does my life matter to them? Naturally, they hate me. I’m just the guy selling canned peas. And their lives don’t really matter to me either. They’re just customers.”
“Yeah.”
“We’re all just ants scrabbling madly about, is what I’m saying.”
“Uh-huh. You’ve told me that.”
“You’re not listening, are you?”
“Look—”
“I feel so alone,” said the telemarketer. He closed his eyes bleakly.
“You don’t have to lie on the couch, you know. There’s plenty of chairs.”
“It’s just,” said the telemarketer, ignoring her. “Kate’s death has been hard on me.”
“I’m sorry, sir, your session was over ten minutes ago. So unless you can pay for more time—”
“I’m probably going to get laid off for not selling enough,” was the answer.
“Yeah. So the door’s over there.” The therapist propelled him rather forcefully away, but the telemarketer peered around the doorframe.
“I’m sorry, but, one more thing—”
“Sir—”
“Just as friends.”
“You think I’m your friend?”
“You’re the closest thing I have to one.”
“Right, right. What did you want to say?”
“Would you . . . would you maybe be interested in buying some peas?”
“You make me sick,” said the therapist, closing the door.
The telemarketer stood alone in the sterile lemon-scented hallway and looked at the can of peas in his hand. He shook it gently near his ear. That faint rattling, as always. But now he was struck by how many insignificant peas there were tumbling about in the dark, and the empty coldness surrounding them.
He cried.

Wickimen wrote:

“. . .and that’s why I feel so miserable all the time,” the telemarketer said with a face void of anything akin to misery, or anything at all really. He glanced at the therapist for a reaction. There was none.
“I just don’t understand any of it,” he went on. “Why we’re all rushing madly about like tiny ants and I’ve got to sell canned peas. Who cares about canned peas? Only I do.”
Further silence from the therapist.
“Aren’t you listening?” the telemarketer snapped finally.
“Sorry, yes. Go on.”
“Because that’s what I do, you know? It’s what I went into. It was my lifelong dream.”
“You mentioned that.”
“But no one else cares. It doesn’t concern them. It’s like life. What does my life matter to them? Naturally, they hate me. I’m just the guy selling canned peas. And their lives don’t really matter to me either. They’re just customers.”
“Yeah.”
“We’re all just ants scrabbling madly about, is what I’m saying.”
“Uh-huh. You’ve told me that.”
“You’re not listening, are you?”
“Look—”
“I feel so alone,” said the telemarketer. He closed his eyes bleakly.
“You don’t have to lie on the couch, you know. There’s plenty of chairs.”
“It’s just,” said the telemarketer, ignoring her. “Kate’s death has been hard on me.”
“I’m sorry, sir, your session was over ten minutes ago. So unless you can pay for more time—”
“I’m probably going to get laid off for not selling enough,” was the answer.
“Yeah. So the door’s over there.” The therapist propelled him rather forcefully away, but the telemarketer peered around the doorframe.
“I’m sorry, but, one more thing—”
“Sir—”
“Just as friends.”
“You think I’m your friend?”
“You’re the closest thing I have to one.”
“Right, right. What did you want to say?”
“Would you . . . would you maybe be interested in buying some peas?”
“You make me sick,” said the therapist, closing the door.
The telemarketer stood alone in the sterile lemon-scented hallway and looked at the can of peas in his hand. He shook it gently near his ear. That faint rattling, as always. But now he was struck by how many insignificant peas there were tumbling about in the dark, and the empty coldness surrounding them.
He cried.

I believe, if I were to continue the story from the original, I wouldn't have any proper prose aside from dialogue and the one line phones ringing, artistically!

Wickimen wrote:

i am not continuing however
i am
FANFICKING

fan fig shin

I believe that is a pseudo-phonetic representation of fanfiction.

"what?" as in "why?" indeed

Necromaster wrote:

Wickimen wrote:

i am not continuing however
i am
FANFICKING

uh

Fanficking is my favorite dude 

veggieman001 wrote:

soupoftomato wrote:

“ . . . I suppose your right.”

i, too, do not enjoy improper grammar. nitpick moar pls

veggieman001 wrote:

soupoftomato wrote:

“ . . . I suppose your right.”

soupoftomato wrote:

“-and unless you want to talk about your feelings toward canned peas, I don’t have time in my schedule for this call.”

soupoftomato wrote:

Wickimen wrote:

veggieman001 wrote:

soupoftomato wrote:

“-and unless you want to talk about your feelings toward canned peas, I don’t have time in my schedule for this call.”

It's a personal choice!

Uh, no

Last edited by Wickimen (2013-02-16 18:24:12)

Heh, well this was a weird read indeed.

I'd say this could work out great for a play or script, though, it can be easily adapted and easily carried out.