Dans ma vie

{The following post is the first of two installments from guest-blogger Lewmont Alec DeMarq. His forthcoming novel, Snow Globes filled with the Tears of Children, due out this winter, is a blinding bildungsroman tale that traces DeMarq's life from the slums of Flagstaff, AZ to his Ivy League education to his discovery of-- and ultimate success because of--Smooth Banishment, the cologne that changed the fragrance game. Please enjoy.}

My hands smell like science, my eyes burn with pride. Soon the residuum of my labors will come to fruition. After many a night slaving over my drafting table with protractor and pencil in hand, I am a few clockwise turns to the right from having a new companion.

True, I revel in a snow globe or thirty, but, alas, these traits, this dedication to a glassed, permanent winter paused behind swirling confetti, afford me very little conviviality. Yes, I've tried those flagitious, malevolent substances that rob individuals of their youth and luster by way of injection or inhalation; sadly, attempts to escape my acute forlornness were mainly by way of illegal drugs. But I learned fairly quickly, that my extreme dissolution would only return twenty fold each and every time the serpentine effect wore away.

Swerving in and out of my cold, dead, hebetudinous labyrinth, I tried to focus my attention on globes, pour my passion into plastic skylines, the properly-angled jiggling of knickknacks, and the subtle twinkling of synthetic snow. But even they couldn't change the barefaced fact that most nights the Food Network was what lulled me to sleep instead of a caring, caressing hand tracing trails on my cheek. I would awake in starts and fits, only to have reality wash itself back into my eyes and my mind: I am alone.

It is not advantageous for an intellect such as my own to be devoid of conversation or stimulation. I need to discuss the problem with the deli isle or how six inches do make a difference or how good my air tastes. Oh how these things tear at my very core!

As the cliché goes, Desperate Measures for Desperate Times, and I have taken it upon myself to dramatically improve my situation. I give you my new roommate, the PX-2500, or Gladys, for short:

Here, as you can see, I'm running the performance program. The Fugal Horn creates the most tranquil, unflappable intonation, in my opinion. The ceremony pictured here was not perfect-- some notes flat, others ear-bleedingly sharp--but showed immense promise.

I will post more pictures when it is complete, maybe even video. But please join me in wishing Gladys success. My life, as I know it, needs this.

Thank you.