The key strokes sound off in an irregular rhythm, timbering over the nervous hum of white noise. The right index finger moves from keyboard to the electroluminescent gaming mouse; left click; facebook loads noticeably slower than usual. Bens face takes on an impatient, then slightly pained expression as the login screen loads; than the home page, than the absence of notifications jumps out at him.
'nothing really? not one wall post? not a single liked comment? Did zero people find my witty remark about the Charlie Sheen scandal at least marginally humorous?'
Ben slumps slightly in his chair, which has been causing him moderate back pains ever since one of the bolts keeping the chair upright disappeared mysteriously at some indeterminate point over the winter. Now he sits at a 45 degree angle, scrolling through his friends list; half searching for someone to strike up casual conversation with. The majority of his actual, real world friends are immediately written off, not much left to say to them anyway. Better to save the good talk for those rare personal encounters that include facial expressions, detectable emotions and irony, and possibly even enthusiasm. The top candidates for chat are unknown women with whom he has made no actual contact. Through the internet everything is kept safe, sterile, harmless. Girls with arousing figures, bubbly and attractive personality's, Intelligent ideas to discuss are wholly easier to approach through the medium of electronic interface. Jenny Ribauld was a top candidate for Prettiest girl at the school. Although she was mostly appreciated for her uncommonly shapely posterior, Ben really did find her fascinating in that abstract way which is usually reserved for more mature romances, or alternatively deranged psychopaths appreciating their subject from afar before moving on to stuffing their lifeless body into a freezer. The manner in which she carried herself hypnotized him, he who had a self esteem problem supposedly, found her irresistible whenever she would proudly walk down the halls, books in hand; generally looking as if she gave zero fucks about what anyone thought. Bens anxiety was a self diagnosed problem that the majority of people who knew him would find laughable.
Truth be told, Ben could be as charismatic as a fascist dictator when the need arised; the exception being in front of beautiful women. They seemed impervious to his intellectual maneuvering and rendered most traditional methods of conversation useless. They seemed none too interested in discussing the endless list of films he had seen, the albums he'd collected, the books he had read and was so eager to share with the world. It was as if he had a total comprehension of art and therefore the universe. Despite the fact his views on love, life, death, free will, reincarnation, time travel, aesthetic appreciation, just about everything changed in a regular cycle of about 3 months. This materialistic elitism was one of the driving forces of his life; his anchor if you will. Whenever a listener failed to fully appreciate his newest endowment; be it a grainy black and white student film comprised mostly of grisly murders and philosophical meandering or an alternative rock album that just totally captured the spirit of the times in which it was made, Ben usually reacted by sealing himself behind an invisible wall through which no further connection could be made. A nauseatingly confined existence within his own home ( a self described agoraphobic) and a limited amount of hangout time with old friends, who smoke nearly as much marijuana as he does, inevitably led to feelings of isolation and depression, with the pot in particular contributing to near constant feeling of cosmic dread. A giant guillotine hanging over much of the days activities, as if some unnameable disaster might befall him at any time.
'nothing really? not one wall post? not a single liked comment? Did zero people find my witty remark about the Charlie Sheen scandal at least marginally humorous?'
Ben slumps slightly in his chair, which has been causing him moderate back pains ever since one of the bolts keeping the chair upright disappeared mysteriously at some indeterminate point over the winter. Now he sits at a 45 degree angle, scrolling through his friends list; half searching for someone to strike up casual conversation with. The majority of his actual, real world friends are immediately written off, not much left to say to them anyway. Better to save the good talk for those rare personal encounters that include facial expressions, detectable emotions and irony, and possibly even enthusiasm. The top candidates for chat are unknown women with whom he has made no actual contact. Through the internet everything is kept safe, sterile, harmless. Girls with arousing figures, bubbly and attractive personality's, Intelligent ideas to discuss are wholly easier to approach through the medium of electronic interface. Jenny Ribauld was a top candidate for Prettiest girl at the school. Although she was mostly appreciated for her uncommonly shapely posterior, Ben really did find her fascinating in that abstract way which is usually reserved for more mature romances, or alternatively deranged psychopaths appreciating their subject from afar before moving on to stuffing their lifeless body into a freezer. The manner in which she carried herself hypnotized him, he who had a self esteem problem supposedly, found her irresistible whenever she would proudly walk down the halls, books in hand; generally looking as if she gave zero fucks about what anyone thought. Bens anxiety was a self diagnosed problem that the majority of people who knew him would find laughable.
Truth be told, Ben could be as charismatic as a fascist dictator when the need arised; the exception being in front of beautiful women. They seemed impervious to his intellectual maneuvering and rendered most traditional methods of conversation useless. They seemed none too interested in discussing the endless list of films he had seen, the albums he'd collected, the books he had read and was so eager to share with the world. It was as if he had a total comprehension of art and therefore the universe. Despite the fact his views on love, life, death, free will, reincarnation, time travel, aesthetic appreciation, just about everything changed in a regular cycle of about 3 months. This materialistic elitism was one of the driving forces of his life; his anchor if you will. Whenever a listener failed to fully appreciate his newest endowment; be it a grainy black and white student film comprised mostly of grisly murders and philosophical meandering or an alternative rock album that just totally captured the spirit of the times in which it was made, Ben usually reacted by sealing himself behind an invisible wall through which no further connection could be made. A nauseatingly confined existence within his own home ( a self described agoraphobic) and a limited amount of hangout time with old friends, who smoke nearly as much marijuana as he does, inevitably led to feelings of isolation and depression, with the pot in particular contributing to near constant feeling of cosmic dread. A giant guillotine hanging over much of the days activities, as if some unnameable disaster might befall him at any time.
