Its becomes clear to me that Miss Ethelie is unfit today to post her effiminate scribblings on account of her being unconscious. I was cleaning up Miss Ethelie’s vomit last night (all over her frilly lavendar-scented pillow cases) when she sat right up in bed and looked at me.
“Who’re you?” she slurred at me. A creeping-vine of drool spilling from her puffy lips. That’s the way with these Directorate do-gooders, always making messes wherever they go.
“I’m Boggins,” I says. “Janitor Boggins.”
That was like the first time anyone in the gold-polished-shit club ever blessed me with a nod t’ward my existence.
“Biggidy Bogginy,” she slurs from her laudanum-blizzard, and falls back into unconsciousness.
Gustav charged me with posting an exercise, which is surprising he could spill any words out in between dry-heaving and talking about his grotesque cat, the fat little beast that spends all its time shedding fur through-out my clean hallways and leaving half eaten beetles on the expensive furniture.
All the other senior staff are away on Very Important Missions, as Miss Ethelie might lecture. Maybe when their brains stop a-shakin in their precious skulls they’ll regret leaving their foolish Directorate in the hands of a janitor that no one ever pays attention to.
Your Fancy Exercise:
Previous exercises have been a doily-choked back-patting-fest of fancy important people. This time, I want you to write a scene with one of the real people, the truly important Little Guys that Keep Miss Ethelie’s vanity polished and her meals warm and her frills unfrumped and everything else. Write a scene from the perspectve of someone that REALLY MATTERS.
