The many writings of Skip that make no sense

Random short story #1

  "The Photographers."

   Cameras. Cameras are terrifying. Do you like photography? Most people do, but those people are not ugly distorted figures with faces to be horrified by. Faces... and bodies to be horrified by. When you look in the mirror you see yourself, you see your body, and all the curves and nature of it. Your body is natural. This is not the same fate for me. My body is deformed and ugly. I look into the mirror and some days I look like a pen deprived of it's ink; however, other days I look into my mirror and I see rolls, upon rolls, upon even more rolls, of pure.. thick.. fat. My face looks as if it is melting and my body sags down upon itself like its trying to devour itself like I devoured food four hours ago. Nothing helps when I feel and look like an animal who does nothing but hunt for it's next ferocious meal. 

    Certainly you don't feel like a musty old animal every time you look in the mirror. Cameras though. Everyone says cameras add 10 to 20 pounds to you, but nobody ever explains why. Well cameras do much more for me. Cameras add onto my weight 100 pounds or more, at least more than what I feel and see in a mirror instead. Each time I consume something it feels like those cameras are pointing at me. Cameras.. and the photographers behind them, each one watching me intently waiting for my fat self to melt onto my rotten meat for devouring or my carbonated liquified desirable. Each photographer looks so disappointed in me when I take a bite or a sip of a consumable. Their blurry faces all share similar disgusted expressions. I feel sick every time. Those same photographers are not watching when the consumed breaches the air, escaping my acid filled cavern. That's when I wish the photographers stood around me I wish they would watch, because the look of pure contentment or appreciation they would feel when watching my body contort and fall to the ground in pain after ejecting my meal from my body would be the most gratifying feeling ever.

   Surely you would not understand the twisted desire of being photographed by fake media producers whenever I throw the consumed things into the toilet or bathtub. No. Surely not. Because you are better than that. You are not a distorted being tainted in utter shame awaiting the day you can starve instead of spewing acid.  I am Awaiting the day I escape the media that follows me wherever I go, and document everything I do, or say, or think about. 

   When did this media even appear? I cannot recall a time I didn't have them standing over me. Mocking me with expressions. Mocking me with their articles comparing my body to my mother's, or my father's, or my friend's. The photographers will watch me for a long time into the future, but I hope deeply that their perception of me, and my eating disorder, change drastically.