Note: This is my writer's craft exam. So enjoy. 'Cause I did.
Duncan wants a tattoo. His parents, Alexander and Mel don't seem to mind, either. They were both very against body modifications in their prime, thus Duncan is confused as to why they're allowing this form of personal expression at last.
Alex and Mel didn't grow up together from preschool, but instead met only a year or so ago now I guess, at the mall. Alex is Duncan's biological father, Mel works at Footlocker. Duncan and Alex went to Mel's mall about a June ago because Alex wanted to investigate the Proactive skincare system for his son, whose face was caked with Neutrogena enough already, but they had decided on the well known, miracle working alternative. The brown woman working at Proactive seemed hesitant and like she was almost scared to help the man and his son. This wasn't what the infomercials had promised, so Alex wanted a refund before they even paid. Mel, being the biggest cartoon you'll ever meet, told the brown woman on her break to “friggin' smile” before informing her that, yes, life is short, and yes, life is uncertain.
Oddly and uncomfortably, Alex asked Mel if she herself used Proactive. It wasn't as though Mel looked like Jessica Simpson or the sort, so it was obvious that Alex was interested in more than just his son's blackheads and surveying the apparently medicated woman about her skin needs. Mel shook both Duncan and Alex's hands, and she became his wife.
Duncan's tattoo would be in his Times New Roman font, but he is completely unsure as to what it would say. Would it be vulgar, to piss his parents off, or would it be a date, or a saying to remember his youth that he hardly remembers now? Would his Times New Roman tattoo be sized 10, or 12, or something much more obnoxious and hearty? Alex tells Duncan to give it a week, his weak obsession with body art. Alex always says things like these because Duncan's personality is very obsessive and repetitive.
Duncan researches tattooists outside of his city, his element, only so he can tell his minimal amount of real friends that his tattoo was done in Ottawa, or somewhere further like Montreal or Halifax. His oldest friend Claire encourages him to get his tattoo before they begin college, because how cool would it look? Claire's a bitch. Don't call me out on it, I have proof of it. It's on her left wrist in Wingdings, sized 14. Claire invested in a watch a couple of weeks ago. She's ashamed.
Not only is Duncan compulsive, but he is also worrisome. Duncan is very conscious of his weight, or lack there of. He is making an attempt to be himself with his body art, but he's also conforming to every frail teenage girl that looks like a boy. The girls who make their own clothes and make it known, the ones who artfully drape their old t-shirts around their withering necks and call them scarves, and call them art. You know. You know them.
Duncan stands 5'9” and weighs 120, but wants to be 110 by the time he moves into residency. Not at the retirement home; college. He'll probably want to be 90 by the time he's there in the wheelchair though. He isn't one of the rare anorexic boys you passively hear about in elementary documentaries and pray for, for a minute. His problems are extreme, but private. His appearance, he feels, must be so precise and loosely in tact before he leaves his house. He stands in his bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror like he stands in The Gap. He plucks the miniature blonde hairs from every unclassified mole. His perfection, although, appears to be imperfect, dystopic really. He wants to look baggy, and tired. He makes attempts by carelessly mismatching his little socks and sulking in public while walking quickly through Union Station like a businessman and looking stern and unapproachable when visiting larger, more dense cities. He loves those deliberate rips in the jeans that he wears. He wouldn't trade them for the world.
He wants to be apart of that brand of those men with the untrimmed facial hair with the cute, although professional looking toques with the pom poms on the subway. Those navy blue ones. He wants to look like a D&G model that has recently finished a photo shoot that was paid to even exist. His importance is his goal. He doesn't necessarily want to have an impact on masses of people for the greater good, no, he doesn't want to be an activist. He enjoys his meat too much to be a vegetarian, and his speaking skills aren't strong enough to be a teacher of any sort. He wants to be remembered and he wants to make the younger suburban boys want every item in his closet, every bed sheet he designed, every girl he's ever touched.
The lifestyle Duncan was seeking was deceiving, you see. When he looked at those men he only ever saw them. Had Duncan had the courage to investigate this brand of man, he would have discovered that they had lives and activities and opportune times where they chose to drop acid, or not. He was afraid of getting to know them, though. He was very image friendly. He's become an introvert and suicidal. His bucket list still consists of getting a tattoo and a nose job.
Alex and Mel didn't grow up together from preschool, but instead met only a year or so ago now I guess, at the mall. Alex is Duncan's biological father, Mel works at Footlocker. Duncan and Alex went to Mel's mall about a June ago because Alex wanted to investigate the Proactive skincare system for his son, whose face was caked with Neutrogena enough already, but they had decided on the well known, miracle working alternative. The brown woman working at Proactive seemed hesitant and like she was almost scared to help the man and his son. This wasn't what the infomercials had promised, so Alex wanted a refund before they even paid. Mel, being the biggest cartoon you'll ever meet, told the brown woman on her break to “friggin' smile” before informing her that, yes, life is short, and yes, life is uncertain.
Oddly and uncomfortably, Alex asked Mel if she herself used Proactive. It wasn't as though Mel looked like Jessica Simpson or the sort, so it was obvious that Alex was interested in more than just his son's blackheads and surveying the apparently medicated woman about her skin needs. Mel shook both Duncan and Alex's hands, and she became his wife.
Duncan's tattoo would be in his Times New Roman font, but he is completely unsure as to what it would say. Would it be vulgar, to piss his parents off, or would it be a date, or a saying to remember his youth that he hardly remembers now? Would his Times New Roman tattoo be sized 10, or 12, or something much more obnoxious and hearty? Alex tells Duncan to give it a week, his weak obsession with body art. Alex always says things like these because Duncan's personality is very obsessive and repetitive.
Duncan researches tattooists outside of his city, his element, only so he can tell his minimal amount of real friends that his tattoo was done in Ottawa, or somewhere further like Montreal or Halifax. His oldest friend Claire encourages him to get his tattoo before they begin college, because how cool would it look? Claire's a bitch. Don't call me out on it, I have proof of it. It's on her left wrist in Wingdings, sized 14. Claire invested in a watch a couple of weeks ago. She's ashamed.
Not only is Duncan compulsive, but he is also worrisome. Duncan is very conscious of his weight, or lack there of. He is making an attempt to be himself with his body art, but he's also conforming to every frail teenage girl that looks like a boy. The girls who make their own clothes and make it known, the ones who artfully drape their old t-shirts around their withering necks and call them scarves, and call them art. You know. You know them.
Duncan stands 5'9” and weighs 120, but wants to be 110 by the time he moves into residency. Not at the retirement home; college. He'll probably want to be 90 by the time he's there in the wheelchair though. He isn't one of the rare anorexic boys you passively hear about in elementary documentaries and pray for, for a minute. His problems are extreme, but private. His appearance, he feels, must be so precise and loosely in tact before he leaves his house. He stands in his bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror like he stands in The Gap. He plucks the miniature blonde hairs from every unclassified mole. His perfection, although, appears to be imperfect, dystopic really. He wants to look baggy, and tired. He makes attempts by carelessly mismatching his little socks and sulking in public while walking quickly through Union Station like a businessman and looking stern and unapproachable when visiting larger, more dense cities. He loves those deliberate rips in the jeans that he wears. He wouldn't trade them for the world.
He wants to be apart of that brand of those men with the untrimmed facial hair with the cute, although professional looking toques with the pom poms on the subway. Those navy blue ones. He wants to look like a D&G model that has recently finished a photo shoot that was paid to even exist. His importance is his goal. He doesn't necessarily want to have an impact on masses of people for the greater good, no, he doesn't want to be an activist. He enjoys his meat too much to be a vegetarian, and his speaking skills aren't strong enough to be a teacher of any sort. He wants to be remembered and he wants to make the younger suburban boys want every item in his closet, every bed sheet he designed, every girl he's ever touched.
The lifestyle Duncan was seeking was deceiving, you see. When he looked at those men he only ever saw them. Had Duncan had the courage to investigate this brand of man, he would have discovered that they had lives and activities and opportune times where they chose to drop acid, or not. He was afraid of getting to know them, though. He was very image friendly. He's become an introvert and suicidal. His bucket list still consists of getting a tattoo and a nose job.
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