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MONOMAN
It’s 4:38, and somewhere, just this second, a giant fickin’ hand has clicked on (with the minutest of tweaks) this land’s dimmerswitch — for the sky is now tinged with a veil of milkyblue . . . and at the forefront of my thoughts is a single fickin’ word: “Monomania” — the madness confined to one subject, or to one faculty of the mind: an unreasonable interest in any particular thing.
I’m beginning to think I am one: a mono-fickin’-maniac. I find myself becoming dangerously obsessed with one fickin’ thing. At the moment it’s writing. I spend all my spare time doing it. And when I can’t do it, I think about doing it. I’m the word-doggin’ equivalent of Stan “the fickin’ man”.
Four or five years ago it was golf. I used to play before going to work (at the crack of dawn), and then after work (in summer). Obsessed I was, fickin’ obsessed. I couldn’t stop until I reduced my handicap to “scratch” — which I eventually did, though it must be said that my local crazygolf course ain’t the most demanding.
When I was at school it was fickin’ cartoons. Comicbook cockface they called me. I would doodle like Rolf Harris’s Siamese twin. Walt Disney was my fickin’ doppelganger. Mainly I drew weird-looking men with eye-patches and dangerous beards up to no-fickin’-good . . . least did I know I would turn into one.
The problem is: once I become good at something, once I reach the point of being adept, I lose all fickin’ interest and switch to something else — to a new monomania. One minute I’m intoxicated (high on the drafts of heaven), the next minute I’ve turned-off completely (and in league with the damned).
It is a kind of madness, especially when I think of all the effort I’ve put in whilst consumed in the pursuit of the i-fickin’-deal. If I injected half as much energy into making money, I’d be as rich as Hugh fickin’ Hefner and The Pink fickin’ Panther combined. – Alas . . . once a ne’er-do-well, always a ne’er-do-well.
It’s 4:38, and somewhere, just this second, a giant fickin’ hand has clicked on (with the minutest of tweaks) this land’s dimmerswitch — for the sky is now tinged with a veil of milkyblue . . . and at the forefront of my thoughts is a single fickin’ word: “Monomania” — the madness confined to one subject, or to one faculty of the mind: an unreasonable interest in any particular thing.
I’m beginning to think I am one: a mono-fickin’-maniac. I find myself becoming dangerously obsessed with one fickin’ thing. At the moment it’s writing. I spend all my spare time doing it. And when I can’t do it, I think about doing it. I’m the word-doggin’ equivalent of Stan “the fickin’ man”.
Four or five years ago it was golf. I used to play before going to work (at the crack of dawn), and then after work (in summer). Obsessed I was, fickin’ obsessed. I couldn’t stop until I reduced my handicap to “scratch” — which I eventually did, though it must be said that my local crazygolf course ain’t the most demanding.
When I was at school it was fickin’ cartoons. Comicbook cockface they called me. I would doodle like Rolf Harris’s Siamese twin. Walt Disney was my fickin’ doppelganger. Mainly I drew weird-looking men with eye-patches and dangerous beards up to no-fickin’-good . . . least did I know I would turn into one.
The problem is: once I become good at something, once I reach the point of being adept, I lose all fickin’ interest and switch to something else — to a new monomania. One minute I’m intoxicated (high on the drafts of heaven), the next minute I’ve turned-off completely (and in league with the damned).
It is a kind of madness, especially when I think of all the effort I’ve put in whilst consumed in the pursuit of the i-fickin’-deal. If I injected half as much energy into making money, I’d be as rich as Hugh fickin’ Hefner and The Pink fickin’ Panther combined. – Alas . . . once a ne’er-do-well, always a ne’er-do-well.
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Well that brought a smile to my face and got the day off to a pleasant start. Enjoyed that.
Lovely little monologue that.
Enjoyed it.
Enjoyed it.
Very good indeed and I have to say I disagree with everything Surrealguy said, it was the perfect length for me, I didn't feel I needed to know anymore on the character and I thought the repetition of the word 'fickin'' was the point. Excellent work, sir.
Brilliant, Black Glove. I think that's one of my favourites from what you've written.
Quite good, but a bit too short in my opinion. Overuse of 'fickin' (intentional, i expect) and it would have been nice to know some other features of the character. Other than that I liked it.
MONOMAN
It’s 4:38, and somewhere, just this second, a giant fickin’ hand has clicked on (with the minutest of tweaks) this land’s dimmerswitch — for the sky is now tinged with a veil of milkyblue . . . and at the forefront of my thoughts is a single fickin’ word: “Monomania” — the madness confined to one subject, or to one faculty of the mind: an unreasonable interest in any particular thing.
I’m beginning to think I am one: a mono-fickin’-maniac. I find myself becoming dangerously obsessed with one fickin’ thing. At the moment it’s writing. I spend all my spare time doing it. And when I can’t do it, I think about doing it. I’m the word-doggin’ equivalent of Stan “the fickin’ man”.
Four or five years ago it was golf. I used to play before going to work (at the crack of dawn), and then after work (in summer). Obsessed I was, fickin’ obsessed. I couldn’t stop until I reduced my handicap to “scratch” — which I eventually did, though it must be said that my local crazygolf course ain’t the most demanding.
When I was at school it was fickin’ cartoons. Comicbook cockface they called me. I would doodle like Rolf Harris’s Siamese twin. Walt Disney was my fickin’ doppelganger. Mainly I drew weird-looking men with eye-patches and dangerous beards up to no-fickin’-good . . . least did I know I would turn into one.
The problem is: once I become good at something, once I reach the point of being adept, I lose all fickin’ interest and switch to something else — to a new monomania. One minute I’m intoxicated (high on the drafts of heaven), the next minute I’ve turned-off completely (and in league with the damned).
It is a kind of madness, especially when I think of all the effort I’ve put in whilst consumed in the pursuit of the i-fickin’-deal. If I injected half as much energy into making money, I’d be as rich as Hugh fickin’ Hefner and The Pink fickin’ Panther combined. – Alas . . . once a ne’er-do-well, always a ne’er-do-well.
It’s 4:38, and somewhere, just this second, a giant fickin’ hand has clicked on (with the minutest of tweaks) this land’s dimmerswitch — for the sky is now tinged with a veil of milkyblue . . . and at the forefront of my thoughts is a single fickin’ word: “Monomania” — the madness confined to one subject, or to one faculty of the mind: an unreasonable interest in any particular thing.
I’m beginning to think I am one: a mono-fickin’-maniac. I find myself becoming dangerously obsessed with one fickin’ thing. At the moment it’s writing. I spend all my spare time doing it. And when I can’t do it, I think about doing it. I’m the word-doggin’ equivalent of Stan “the fickin’ man”.
Four or five years ago it was golf. I used to play before going to work (at the crack of dawn), and then after work (in summer). Obsessed I was, fickin’ obsessed. I couldn’t stop until I reduced my handicap to “scratch” — which I eventually did, though it must be said that my local crazygolf course ain’t the most demanding.
When I was at school it was fickin’ cartoons. Comicbook cockface they called me. I would doodle like Rolf Harris’s Siamese twin. Walt Disney was my fickin’ doppelganger. Mainly I drew weird-looking men with eye-patches and dangerous beards up to no-fickin’-good . . . least did I know I would turn into one.
The problem is: once I become good at something, once I reach the point of being adept, I lose all fickin’ interest and switch to something else — to a new monomania. One minute I’m intoxicated (high on the drafts of heaven), the next minute I’ve turned-off completely (and in league with the damned).
It is a kind of madness, especially when I think of all the effort I’ve put in whilst consumed in the pursuit of the i-fickin’-deal. If I injected half as much energy into making money, I’d be as rich as Hugh fickin’ Hefner and The Pink fickin’ Panther combined. – Alas . . . once a ne’er-do-well, always a ne’er-do-well.
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