TMWNW: Chapter Three Point Five.

Winston is aboard a Death Star; one of many intergalactic space cruisers designed to destroy planets and drastically reduce the property value of homes which are situated on planets near the Death Star’s particular orbit.

“Aaaarrrggghhh”

A primeval cry splits the atmosphere, like lightning in a black night. Winston, the psychically gifted Warlord, telepathically levitates a spoon in his Commander’s office and begins to systematically destroy his Death Star with it. A planet nearby quivers with apologies

(“PLANETS AREN’T SORRY” Winston cries)

as the scene dissolves.

TMWNW: Chapter Three.

Winston sat at the table, watching a spoon.

He would not have been concentrating so fiercely upon such a piece of silverware, however, if this was just any ordinary spoon. It’s not to suggest that this was a spoon that could accomplish things no normal spoons could, no, for if one were to examine this spoon as closely as Winston did, then one would determine that this was a rather ordinary spoon. Perhaps such a spoon would produce frustration if one wished to devour soup like a really hungry whale (Winston winced), for it was a rather flat bowled spoon, but otherwise one would not be able to find any distinguishing features that would set this spoon apart from its other utensilish brethren.

But.

Winston continued to stare at the spoon.

Perhaps it could be that this spoon represented something special in Winston’s eyes; something that nobody but Winston could fathom. This may be analogous to a fat man who adores the food he is eating. It looks nice and all, but if one were to watch the man take a large, slobbering bite out of his

(Winston winced again, this time more perceptibly).

sustenance, the value of the food diminishes significantly. Yet, to the fat man, this food continues to represent a promise of more delicious bites to come. Perhaps this is the way with Winston; he places untold value into the spoon because it represents more than what we believe it to represent.

Perhaps this spoon is not simply a spoon in Winston’s eyes, but it represents a chain of events that ultimately unfolds into his daily routine. Perhaps Winston understands that to pick up the spoon would require him to eat his cereal (which is getting soggy). To eat his cereal (which is getting soggy) would be to accept the fact that Winston will need nutrition in the coming day. To accept this fact would lead Winston to acknowledge that he will, indeed, be working at his seven day a week job; a job which may require him to have sustenance, or therefore risk feeling light-headed for the rest of the day. Thus, to pick up this spoon may be the key to the beginning of Winston’s dreary day. And thus, he so despises what he routinely does, that he is forcefully willing himself to not pick up this spoon. This is so as to not spawn the series of events that will ultimately leave him tired, bored, and unwilling to confront his next morning’s spoon-like catalyst.

Yet.

Winston always sets aside an extra fifteen minutes in the mornings so that he can contemplate the beginning of his perpetually mind numbing day. He always goes to work, and he is always on time.

(Winston flinched, and almost falls to the floor)

Or, perhaps Winston just has the early morning stares, and he cannot move his eyes from his cereal.

(Winston tumbled out of his chair awkwardly; pain etched across his face like a man who has just eaten some particularly old food and now has food poisoning)

Winston got up and picked up his spoon. He brandished it into the air like a fencer with no equilibrium. “You stop that right now!” Winston cried, spoon abrandish.

The table looks at Winston inquisitively.

Winston jabbed his spoon forward accusingly. “I said give me a past! Not contemplate my god damned beginnings with a god damn spoon and a god damn soggy bowl of cereal!”

The table radiates apologies.

“I don’t know what it is you think constitutes a normal morning for a normal human being, but I can tell you now, it’s not this boring, or we’d all be watching a lot more T.V.! Now use your god damned imagination, you twit! ” With this, Winston threw his catalystic spoon at the window.

The scene dissolves.

TMWNW: Chapter Two.

Tommy.

“Great, chuck a kids name on me. How about while we’re here, we cross out Billy, Danny, Toby and Jimmy at the same time. Idiot.”

Jim.

“Wow, I totally wasn’t expecting that. Clearly you have a monopoly on all the inspiration in this particular area.”

Christian.

“You’re going for allegory or you’re equating me to some kind of Wrestler. Either way, you’re an idiot.”
Fine, why don’t you pick.

“Winston.”

No.

“Why the hell not?”

That’s my name.

“Exactly.”

That doesn’t work. People will read this and think it’s autobiographical. Winston’s the author, and look at that, Winston’s the main character! I wonder where he got that name from!

“Then don’t put your name on the front of the book, genius. My name’s Winston.”

Winston sat down.

“Now give me a life.”

A life?

He throws his hands up in exasperation.

“God damn you’re stupid. Here I am, thinking we’re making progress, but it turns out you were faking me out the whole time. I was going to say this is like talking to a rock, but at least rocks have something on the inside, Jesus Christ.”

He stands up and begins to pace back and forth, one hand tapping his forehead, the other hand gesticulating like a piano player on Ritalin. Brow furrowed, he begins to murmur to himse-

“Shut up.”

Sorry.

“You were almost passable for something beyond a sack of stupid for like two seconds, and then you drop a bomb like ‘piano player on Ritalin.’ Seriously, some people try to make terribles like that, and they can’t even come close to what you’re spewing out naturally.”

Suddenly, he stops pacing and looks up, eyes alight.

“I got it buddy boy.”

Got what?

“A past.”

The scene dissolves.