Doll Face

He is conforming to witty banter. He sure sounds like it. Look at the poor kid, he uses one of his faces that surely convinces you he knows what he is talking about. We don't know where he's going with this conversation, I'm sure he doesn't either, he will abruptly stop on a sour, awkward note. Just looking at his thin, salad green and squirming tongue between his teeth makes you want to slap his plastic face. The words he said rolled off of his wooden shoulders, his rubber feet moving anxiously like your feet would kick around on the floorboard of your car in summer traffic. He was everything but independent. He had everything but self-employed opinions.

Most likely, he woke up thinking about how he is going to make everyone feel sorry for him today, how he won't say a word to a single soul, and if he did, his words would crack like a hammer on splintered wood in the other persons ear. I bet it fell through two hours into the day when he decided he couldn't keep his copper teeth from chattering away people until they were nothing but compost buried in the ground, until their plastic faces were nothing but melted goop. I could almost feel his affects on me, all atoms in my body starting to crumble to the ground. He is more artificial than any person in this room. The space he consumes in this world should be occupied by one who has made them self. I wonder if he thinks he is a good writer. I wonder if the guitar he says he owns actually exists. I wonder if a pencil could pierce the throat of a person built like this. He thinks he is divine, I can tell, I see right through his transparent abdomen. He thinks he is rock solid. He looks as if someone polished him from head to toe. This person might be a toy, maybe a doll.

He kept speaking, all of us around him squirming, looking to the surface directly in front of us, just wanting him to stop making the awkward moment possible. Just stop. I have never been so irritated, babies have never cried this loud, smokers have never smoked this much, Nazis have never been this disgusting, never so vile. Spoiled milk. He is spoiled milk. This person is everyones disgusting beverage. He is the scab on the worlds knee. He is the knife that can't cut an apple.

Something tastes like pepper rolling around my cheeks. Why do I let people have this affect on me? My teeth hurt, I must be chewing on crystals. My head starts to spin in some blurry dissatisfying state. He shouldn't have a name, it will bug you more and more, not knowing what to call a person. I've met this character before. He's the little weasel who always gets one killed during a Hollywood con movie. The one that dies soon, but the director keeps in the plot for purposes of suspense and drama. He is a walking, speaking drama. His tie doesn't match his tuxedo. People standing around in the restroom noticed. The people avoiding the formal dinner party, waiting for their wives to pack up their conversation. We all looked at this man in the mirror, watching him speak his lips off. Telling a story of personal accounts which I had already heard, time and again. Reflections have a way of annoying you after years of reflecting. We watched the man plunge the pencil he was holding deep in his throat, cutting sideways. I've never seen a life drain out of perspective, drain out of meaning or purpose. I never realized blood was so thick or messy. I never thought ones trachea would dangle out of a neck when sliced open. The reflection was gone, only the ceiling above was in visible sight. No one will ever see such a reflection again. Such a man does not deserve to live, I decided.