It all began with the buttermilk cookies.
I was over at Alma’s apartment the other time and lounging on her sofa when she failed to tribute me with buttermilk cookies. Having been my fiancée for some years now, she knew that I absolutely loved them, and would normally come up with a platter whenever I visited. Baked by herself, of course.
She’d said that she didn’t have time these few days to make them, and I’d have left it as such – I am, after all, an understanding man – if I had not chanced upon an empty platter, with cookie crumbs on it, by the sink.
Repeated occurrences of this phenomenon led me to conclude that my original hypothesis was correct – I was being cuckolded.
I did not, as most irrational men would, immediately fly into a rage. Such was for the undisciplined, the weak of will. I pondered over what I should do in such an occasion, whether I should approach her about it, or whether I should quietly give up the girl who no longer loved me. Then I remembered how she’d claimed to love me, and all the wonderful years we’d had together; then, I flew into a rage.
I came up with a plan, of course. No educated man should ever jump into a course of action unprepared. I would follow her every action somehow and find out who she’d been seeing and confront him later when he was alone and give him a walloping. Nothing less than what a proper English gentleman would do, and I was nothing short of an English gentleman.
A week later I had my chance. I was at Alma’s watching the television when I noted her exiting the apartment with a platter of cookies in hand – the audacity! I was still there! – and thus I followed her. She didn’t notice me, of course. I did not go through those years in boarding school without picking up some useful sneaking skills.
Peeved as I was about the faithlessness of my fiancée, I was surprised to see her lay the plate on the ground. Perhaps she did not feel as much for this new man as I’d thought.
As she moved away from the platter and returned up the stairs, I looked at the adorable puppy dog munching away at the cookies. In such a situation, there was only one thing for an English gentleman to do – I gave the canine a kick on its rear.
16-year-old writer’s commentary:
Alma is another female game character name. Couldn’t think of anything else at the time.
The writer in this piece is a stereotypical stuffy ol’ English gentleman, the type who stops at goodness-knows-when to drink tea. Ends up making a fool of himself, it’s a jibe. I don’t really like this piece that much, but I was desperate. I’d spent the earlier 25 minutes trying to come up with an idea, rejecting the idea of writing a tale in which at the end it is revealed that the writer is in fact the physical incarnation of Jealousy as it was too fantastical.
The term ‘fly into a rage’ is extremely amusing to me, thus I used it obsessively in one paragraph. Something about some charades my class had once, and to mime it (well cheating partially), this group wrote the word ‘rage’ on the board and someone flapped his arms and smashed into the word.
There are many ironic instances of gentlemanly pride in this piece, and I believe I’ve made them blatantly obvious. I somewhat like how the writer is proud of his years of boarding school and the thieving skills he’d picked up from them. Something I thought was more subtle was how his ‘plan’ was extremely weak and ill-concieved. So much for education.
Aside from an attack on the stuffy gentleman, I wrote this in an anti-education mood as well. I’m not against education specifically, but the way in which grades matter so much and all just horrifies me. There’s a common name for this stuff – The System. But I’m sure you’ve all had enough exposure to anti-System sentiments, so I shan’t go on.
I find it rather ironic that I am now, once again, a part of The System.