Epiphanies that change the world are very rare indeed. It is the small, everyday, seemingly mundane epiphanies that will change your life. A matter of simple process, someone who does something differently than you. They have the same aim, achieve the same results but the method employed is so much better, making you step back and think, “Wow!”
Personally whenever I change my doona cover, which is quite often as I love clean sheets, I undertake the following convoluted dance: Grab the doona by the corners, climb into the doona cover, stand up with my arms over my head and match the corners of the cover with the doona, fall face down on the bed, wriggle out of the doona cover, shake it out and button it up. That is just how I though it was done.
My roommate saw me wrestling like two pigs under a blanket and said with sadness, “Why don’t you just turn the cover inside out, grab the edges and shake it?” It blew my mind, my own little revelation.
Such was the epiphany when one night at a fashion week cocktail party, Anorexia and Bulimia bumped into each other and started swapping dieting secrets.
Instalment Three
We could never really tell why Faggot upset Gay so much. Faggot just seemed to persistently niggle at Gay by his very existence. Like those people you loathe instantly when you meet them but you can’t put your finger on why.
Faggot had developed the habit of referring to himself in the third person as well as adding a definite article to his name. He would saunter into a party and announce in that singsong voice of his, “The Faggot is here.” “Everyone turn around and look, The Faggot dancing!”
Gay hated it.
Out one night at a wine bar with his Best Friends Forever, Gay broke down in tears.
“But you used to hate us,” Fairy said.
“Remember when you met Queer, you hated him too. You said he was rude, insulting and just like ants at a picnic.”
“Look at you two now, happy as two children running naked in the woods. You boys are stronger, better people because of your friendship.”
“Don’t let The Faggot upset you?” Queer chimed in, “You should embrace The Faggot. He’s a good guy once you get to know him.”
“I’m not calling him The Faggot though,” Gay grumbled, “What about Fag?”
Faggot had developed the habit of referring to himself in the third person as well as adding a definite article to his name. He would saunter into a party and announce in that singsong voice of his, “The Faggot is here.” “Everyone turn around and look, The Faggot dancing!”
Gay hated it.
Out one night at a wine bar with his Best Friends Forever, Gay broke down in tears.
“But you used to hate us,” Fairy said.
“Remember when you met Queer, you hated him too. You said he was rude, insulting and just like ants at a picnic.”
“Look at you two now, happy as two children running naked in the woods. You boys are stronger, better people because of your friendship.”
“Don’t let The Faggot upset you?” Queer chimed in, “You should embrace The Faggot. He’s a good guy once you get to know him.”
“I’m not calling him The Faggot though,” Gay grumbled, “What about Fag?”
Instalment Two
Days of Heaven
The God of Absence was having a tough time sleeping. He worked too hard granting prayers. “God,” people would say after a big night out on the tiles “there is no way I can make it into work today,” and lo, bosses and co-workers would believe in a fictional sickness(1).
But who believed in him? Who really believed in Absence?(2) His greatest achievements involved remaining unseen(3). It was just too depressing, he could barely face the idea of going into work. And now the office was open-plan seating(4) he was stuck listening to the whinings of the God of Abstinence.
She was a stuck up bitch, Lord give him strength. Always telling him he shouldn’t drink so much or on the phone to her one friend talking about the guy she was dating and how they were taking it slow. And ever since she came up with the whole “promise ring” idea she couldn’t put a foot wrong, the boys down in marketing(5) loved her.
“Fuck it,” The God of Absence thought, “I’m calling in sick.” He phoned Old Pete(6) at the front gate, explained he couldn’t stop shitting, had a slug of scotch and went back to bed.
(1) - The God of Absence was a big fan of irritated bowels, otherwise known as “can’t stop shitting.” It was the one excuse no one wanted to argue with and doesn’t require the use of a “sick voice” on the phone.
(2) – In all fairness, it is tough to believe in someone who by definition is never present when you need him most.
(3) – His greats work was, and still is the absence of God. Theologians and philosophers have long argued what exactly an absence of God signifies. Known as “The Absence Theodicy”, the argument states that if "God" is "goodness", anything not good such as evil and suffering is the absence of God. Therefore, the absence theodicy claims that God is not responsible for evil, merely for good. Well I really don’t understand any of that, but what we all should be able to agree on is that the absence of God must surely prove the existence of the God of Absence.
(4) – For some reason the higher-ups had brought in a management consultant that scrapped personal cubicles and arranged the office in an alphabetical, open-plan lay out. The God of Absence was now working on the same floor as the Gods of Abhorrence, Absolution (who was always very busy), Abstraction and Abbreviation amongst others. There was even some weird, balding, Australian guy called Garry who claimed that he was once a cat and people used to worship at his feet and call him God.
(5) – Marketing had long since been out-sourced to Hell. It makes sense really, they were willing to take on absolutely anyone as a client and were gurus at merchandising. Who do you think can up with wearing the cross as a necklace, it is not as if that is in anyway tasteful when you think about it.
(6) – Old Pete had been in charge of security at the front gates as long as anyone could remember, dear old fellow, a saint really. Not much to look at him, but if you weren’t on his list there was no getting past him. Much like the bouncer of a fashionable nightclub – name not on the clipboard? – “sorry mate, not tonight, private function I am afraid.”
The God of Absence was having a tough time sleeping. He worked too hard granting prayers. “God,” people would say after a big night out on the tiles “there is no way I can make it into work today,” and lo, bosses and co-workers would believe in a fictional sickness(1).
But who believed in him? Who really believed in Absence?(2) His greatest achievements involved remaining unseen(3). It was just too depressing, he could barely face the idea of going into work. And now the office was open-plan seating(4) he was stuck listening to the whinings of the God of Abstinence.
She was a stuck up bitch, Lord give him strength. Always telling him he shouldn’t drink so much or on the phone to her one friend talking about the guy she was dating and how they were taking it slow. And ever since she came up with the whole “promise ring” idea she couldn’t put a foot wrong, the boys down in marketing(5) loved her.
“Fuck it,” The God of Absence thought, “I’m calling in sick.” He phoned Old Pete(6) at the front gate, explained he couldn’t stop shitting, had a slug of scotch and went back to bed.
(1) - The God of Absence was a big fan of irritated bowels, otherwise known as “can’t stop shitting.” It was the one excuse no one wanted to argue with and doesn’t require the use of a “sick voice” on the phone.
(2) – In all fairness, it is tough to believe in someone who by definition is never present when you need him most.
(3) – His greats work was, and still is the absence of God. Theologians and philosophers have long argued what exactly an absence of God signifies. Known as “The Absence Theodicy”, the argument states that if "God" is "goodness", anything not good such as evil and suffering is the absence of God. Therefore, the absence theodicy claims that God is not responsible for evil, merely for good. Well I really don’t understand any of that, but what we all should be able to agree on is that the absence of God must surely prove the existence of the God of Absence.
(4) – For some reason the higher-ups had brought in a management consultant that scrapped personal cubicles and arranged the office in an alphabetical, open-plan lay out. The God of Absence was now working on the same floor as the Gods of Abhorrence, Absolution (who was always very busy), Abstraction and Abbreviation amongst others. There was even some weird, balding, Australian guy called Garry who claimed that he was once a cat and people used to worship at his feet and call him God.
(5) – Marketing had long since been out-sourced to Hell. It makes sense really, they were willing to take on absolutely anyone as a client and were gurus at merchandising. Who do you think can up with wearing the cross as a necklace, it is not as if that is in anyway tasteful when you think about it.
(6) – Old Pete had been in charge of security at the front gates as long as anyone could remember, dear old fellow, a saint really. Not much to look at him, but if you weren’t on his list there was no getting past him. Much like the bouncer of a fashionable nightclub – name not on the clipboard? – “sorry mate, not tonight, private function I am afraid.”
Instalment One
Supposedly remained blissfully unaware of the family secret until his eighteenth birthday. His parents took him aside and spilled forth their hidden shame.
Supposedly had a brother, a fraternal twin. One starved of nutrients and oxygen from a twisted umbilical cord. A gruesome and nauseating parody of a child, its skull misshapen and limbs withered.
As this was in the days before ultrasounds, when women kept on drinking and smoking while pregnant, there was no warning for the thing they were handed in the delivery room. A monster. Supposedly’s mother fainted. His father, deep in shock, fought his way through the formalities and took the unwanted child straight to the orphanage.
“I have a brother,” Supposedly gasped, “What was his name?”
“His name is Supposably.”
Just uttering the name sent a chill through the room, setting teeth on edge, like the sound of nails down a black board.
“But you never speak his name, I don’t want you to even think the word supposably.”
“And if you hear that word, if you hear someone say supposably, you correct them, you correct them as fast as you can.”
“Just as we do with your sister Specifically and her monstrous twin, Pacifically.”
Supposedly had a brother, a fraternal twin. One starved of nutrients and oxygen from a twisted umbilical cord. A gruesome and nauseating parody of a child, its skull misshapen and limbs withered.
As this was in the days before ultrasounds, when women kept on drinking and smoking while pregnant, there was no warning for the thing they were handed in the delivery room. A monster. Supposedly’s mother fainted. His father, deep in shock, fought his way through the formalities and took the unwanted child straight to the orphanage.
“I have a brother,” Supposedly gasped, “What was his name?”
“His name is Supposably.”
Just uttering the name sent a chill through the room, setting teeth on edge, like the sound of nails down a black board.
“But you never speak his name, I don’t want you to even think the word supposably.”
“And if you hear that word, if you hear someone say supposably, you correct them, you correct them as fast as you can.”
“Just as we do with your sister Specifically and her monstrous twin, Pacifically.”
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