Fool herman

It’s sheer luck when you stand out completely, all your life.

“Hello,” the doll seems to say to you as you slowly approach him. How does it really look like? He has hair, teeth, clothes, and a mystery. There is a hint of black, yellow and green hair. He doesn’t seem like he resembles anything, some kind of asexual, a clown that could be anything. Is it really a “gay” doll? Yes, but no, it seems to yell at you somehow that it was once a man. And it seems that once, he altered himself to his basic soul.

However, you know that you have met this person before, perhaps as a woman once. Leaving the forces of nature behind, realizing that you could be caught and thrown into a mental institution, you suddenly wake up and see bright lights everywhere. You are in a simple store, a kind of store. Looking around, the images resolve to a woman in a puppet shop.

Fascinating isn’t it? You are looking at the doll in your hand. You have picked me up well, say the doll’s lips, in your own mind. Now you are that woman, but everything is in the past, since human life on the face of the planet is over. Well, maybe in a few years.

“Pick me up, woman of my soul,” he said as he raised it to his lips.

“I’ll take it,” sighed Sandra at the cash register.

“No problem. Just make sure you watch Herman when he comes home to you. He always takes up too much space.”

“Well the little one seems small for that.”

Sandra walked away from the cash register and out the door, as she weighed over 300 pounds. Now she had a new friend for her Pierrot doll collection, she knew it for herself, and was heading to her own apartment downtown. She could no longer be a lesbian.

She was already too old and fat – it mattered – for her former lover. And he knew he had to die. Her lover had walked out the door once and just never came back. She was a nobody. Her lover had often given her this feeling, feasting with her at times.

She had never actually been a lesbian, Sandra smiled to herself. He knew that the only heaven was in the afterlife. But his body groaned and creaked as she led him up the stairs after entering his small but dingy apartment building. She climbed the steps to the top floor where she was forced to live. It had taken her a long time to find the small studio, as the demand was incessant in the area she lived in, away from the boyfriend who had always teased her in an occasionally amusing way. He had been a real man, before the lesbian.

He was dad. She had had children of her own before, or made it up. Anyway, he had long since gone far away, because of his own personal war with her for poverty, for lack of children because of her fat, for life.

Away from the man she had nearly led to kill her. The man had interesting hair too, like this Pierrot doll, but it had been all black and gloomy, spiked in the morning, feathers at night like his other lover’s hair had been.

Such “love” had never existed. Still, Sandra smiled. Now he knew he had no such “soul,” but it had been fun playing pretend.

Some days, he wondered if he had murdered her. It had led her to become an overweight lesbian, or not. Was it her fault or his? It was a “he says she says”, and he had finally found someone else like that. She thought maybe she had said something, and he had been offended. Now he weighed enough to die.

He looked longingly at the doll, as if waiting for the mysterious event. But she smiled her own smile as she held back against heart attacks. His chest was exploding inside. And she was holding her Pierrot 1001 doll.

To see, his apartment was full of Pierrot dolls, the crying clown, the smiling clown, the clown everywhere. She had built small wooden shelves from kits. These were her children, because she had aborted only one once, but now there were none available. He was going to join the only son he never had, in outer space.

Little Herman was worried about her. She shook it. Then he shook it hard. “Say you’re sorry. Say you’re sorry, Dad, for telling me that there is an afterlife and that you were God. There is also a hell in this life called War.” The doll shook, oh how it shook. Suddenly, Sandra noticed that Herman’s little face was broken. Oh!

He had broken his favorite hobby doll. Not only that, his death sequence was starting to look a bit pathetic. Pant pant pant, hold the wrist. Look at the doll. Pant pant pant Did I waste my time back there? Yes, I do.

“Dad,” she muttered to herself, “Dad, you’re broken now. Come to my house,” she intoned like the melodious … mommy. He placed Herman carefully on a shelf. He couldn’t or didn’t want to remember any of his other names. As she looked around, the place resonated with marching band dolls, fancy dolls, Barbie dolls, Kewpie dolls with their blonde heads, Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls that she filled with wonderful candy hearts just as she had sewn them herself, of plastic. dolls made by anyone, purple and green ceramic dolls and some that were simply other types of clown dolls than Pierrot dolls.

The camera that was his eyes refocused on his brain. Something had been there a long time ago, recording anything as he collapsed to the ground, falling on his fat, having reduced himself to the thinnest person in the universe. He smiled at me, Herman thought. She had finally gotten SSI and her own apartment was all her own. It happened the same day that he realized he was dying.

Now I am home at last. I hope, he thought to himself. He jumped up and immediately approached her. “My God, dear, but I don’t know where you went. You probably disintegrated. Have a good trip to the bad garbage, I would say. Now we can party. However, somehow, I would have liked to meet you., My love, my … . ”Herman stopped, and saw a small glow surrounding the muscles of his chest. He swallowed hard and realized that he had been hit by the worst fate. This cannot be heaven.

He looked up at the ceiling. He looked at the extremely dirty carpet with trash everywhere. He looked at the cracked and chipped walls. It felt right at home and extremely brave. Then everything was resolved in a perfectly habitable apartment. He was happy.

“Hello!”

There was absolutely nothing left but a deathly silence.

Herman crouched next to the corpse and wept. Because he was trapped forever, in a small insignificant apartment, throwing himself on a decomposing corpse. He had been from England once, and the little white tag said it out loud so loudly. In small print blurred and difficult to read. He couldn’t help that someone else had been his Creator.

Many doors were slammed downstairs to let the little one know this: that he only had the urge to survive and the urge to have fun in some way. There was no child to play with; he had not heard wandering to probe the darkness called time. There was no Christophophoror Robbins, no Winnie the Pal. Nobody, nobody, him.

He even tried to mount it, but there was nothing there.

As time passed, over the years, he groped with boring devotion for the nonexistent dead woman. But since he could do nothing to raise her alive from the dead, they eventually killed him. Bugs, weasels, cockroaches and tiny spirochetes – they all ate it. Really mold, but he had to stay alive to suffer it all. Finally, it had already collapsed. And the gods weren’t there to pronounce their fate.

Who are they? No one that I can touch, stop or speak to, nothing at all, but it’s the only way that figures.