User:Lime/Sandbox

Some of a story I've had floating around in my head. This is a test, kinda. I'm going to write it up in a different format once I've thought it out some more.

PROLOGUE
Man, I had the weirdest dream last night. I think it must've been what I had for dinner—they say greasy food is supposed to give you nightmares, after all. Damn that delicious garlic pizza. Anyway, it involved this angry fat guy. And when I say fat, I mean huge, like a grotesque ball of flesh. Probably had too much pizza himself.

He yelled at me, saying crazy stuff like "Give me my life back, you dang dirty thief!" I had no idea what he was talking about, so I tried telling him that. I said, "Listen, buddy, I didn't steal anything from you. I don't even know you!", but he kept on screaming his head off at me. He was furious! He tried to punch me square in the jaw (though I don't think it would've hurt, even if he and his strike were real; despite how big he was, he didn't look too strong—probably made of lard rather than muscle), but he started fading away before his fist was anywhere near my face. After that, I woke up.

Maybe I should stop eating pizza before bed.

DAY 1
I continue lying in bed, trying to analyze what I just dreamed of. You know how dreams are supposedly made of symbolism that floats around in your subconscious, or something? If that's the case, my mind needs a diet and some anger management classes.

"Chris, come down and get yer breakfast!"

I suddenly remember what woke me up from that dream I was busy deciphering: Mom's grumpy, groggy, growly voice. I rush downstairs, the tantalizing smell of bacon and buttery toast leading the way. If food caused that nightmare, maybe it can help get rid of its aftermath too.

I enter the kitchen and sit at the table, right between Mom and Dad. I eagerly leer at what's on the plate below, holding up my fork as if I were a valiant knight with a mighty sword, but before I can dig in Dad just has to go and repeat his favorite phrase: "You've found a job yet, son?" You're bringing this shit up this early, Pop? Seriously?

"I've told you a thousand times already," I start, "I'm working on it!"

"Then why haven't you got one?" he asks. I swear this is the only goddamn thing he talks about anymore. "You moving out any time soon?"

"Why do you think I'm going to college? To get a diploma, so I can get a job, so I can move out!" Really, Dad. I always have to tell you this.

"Well then, what degree are ya getting? What's yer major?"

That's it, old fart. “I don't know why I even bother telling you all the time, Dad. You always ask the same question, and I always give you the same answer. It's not like it's going to change any time soon.”

“Well it'd better, 'cause your mother and I are tired of paying for your funds. We're not getting any younger—”

“'—And our insurance bills aren't getting any smaller.' Heard you the first time.”