A Day in the Life Of...
an excerpt

October 31st

“Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzzz. BUZZZZ! Dude, Tristan, just WAKE-UP! Buzz. Buzz. SMACK. Bu- Fine, I’ll just Buzz again in eight minutes, on the dot to be sure.“
So goes yet another wake-up call for Mr. Tristan Ulysses Brown, called Troy. Though, I guess the politically correct title in this case is Master, for the subject is, as of now, seventeen years old and head male of the household, not because there is no adult male present, but because the adult male present has already passed all of the official heir titles and responsibilities to Troy, for sake of convenience later on. The speaker in question is not a living, breathing person, but an evil entity with face of a digital atomic alarm clock, equipped with weapons that go beep, buzz, and show the time and indoor/outdoor temperatures at all hours of the day, projecting them with a blinding light fit for a laser onto the ceiling belonging to the only living subject yet to be mentioned in this paragraph, Mister-Master Tristan Ulysses Brown. The atomic clock loves to cause much turmoil in the mornings, incessantly buzzing and beeping until the Master slaps, smacks, or hits the button which instantly knocks the clock back into a state of dormancy… But only for eight minutes, until the beeping starts once more. Chaos ensues for the next half hour as the battle continues, until eventually, the living subject submits to the voice of the non-living subject, and the day continues.
Now the sound of water hitting a plastic wall, dripping to a slippery plastic floor, and whooshing rapidly down a metal drainpipe can clearly be heard for the next four minutes or so, as Troy makes a gallant effort to rid himself of gallons of eye-sand that accumulated overnight due to the sinister Mr. Sandman, and eventually the subject opens his eyes and his mind takes in his surroundings. He is awake.
Soon, the hitting, dripping and whooshing of the water is barely audible, for a screeching sound has taken its place. Or rather forced the previous, calming sounds completely out of the picture. As our subject awakens, he feels on top of the world and beings to sing as if the world were constantly applauding. High notes, low notes, and everything in between can be heard as the subject mutilates every song created between 1970 and the present year. If there be a divine power in the world or outside of it, pray that s/he/it/they not be deafened to our prayers due to this horrible, occult worshipping done by our subject.
On this particular day, Freddie Mercury is turning over in his grave as Troy attempts a round of I Want to Break Free, in the keys of B-flat, A, and A-flat minor (no pun intended). “It’s strange but its true/I can’t get over the way you love me like you do/But I have to be sure/When I walk out the door/Oh how I want to be free baby/Oh how I want to be free/Oh how I want to break free!” Yeah. The water dripping off your naked body is thinking the same exact thing. Oh, how they want to break free! As the song continues, the subject drops more and more flat, despite the eager falsetto, until eventually he’s gone through at least two major key signatures, none of which the original song was performed in, and a minor one (or two.) Freddie Mercury--may you rest in peace.
The sound of water truly ends approximately fifteen minutes later, as does the singing, as Troy decides that he’s done purifying his body, and realizes it’s a bit less accepted to sing loudly outside of the shower than inside of one as the reality of not being the only one alive/awake caves in on his fantasies of stardom.
Troy is now shuffling through his dresser drawers, closet, and wardrobe, searching frantically for something suitable to adorn his body with for the day. Getting dressed, as with many females, is more of an art than a necessity to Troy. He doesn’t understand the need for clothing, and if he’s going to be forced to wear such items, he wants to be seen in a very good light. Consider it metro sexual, consider it weird, but that’s Troy’s life for you. Filled with oddities.
October 31st, All Hallows Eve... Troy tries to tie this into his daily attire, yet fails miserably. He ends up wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt advertising a high school play that has long since been performed. Something about Damn Yankees, with a picture of a baseball bad and a devil’s pitchfork on the front, and show dates on the back. Slightly devilish, to Troy, is the true essence of Halloween. No need to prance about in costumes pretending to be Freddie Mercury or Marilyn Monroe when a good ol’ t-shirt does the job just as well. Our favorite subject straps on his shoes, straightens his hair by shaking his head like a supermodel, and brushes his teeth, the final preparations for his daily routine.
Seven-thirty finally comes. Seven-thirty five. Seven-forty. Troy finally realizes that he’s late for school. Too bad the alarm clock has long since been silenced, otherwise it’s screaming might have given sufficient warning to stay his narcissism for the time being. Always on the move, he takes a sweeping glance at himself in the window as he heads out the door, winking and making a gun motion as if he’s shooting himself for being too good looking.
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