He looked at his watch, shocked to find it was already 1:30 in the morning. Of course, a good percentage of that shock came from the coffee he grabbed that afternoon. Ever since the Four Men Feast and the tasting of many beers, he came to embrace the fact that he couldn't handle substances. He didn't even get drunk, he just felt terrible - a surging headache and a stomach that wouldn't shut up. What a nauseating night that was. Coffee was no exception. A couple cups at a late breakfast was enough to keep him wide awake the proceeding night, which meant his afternoon espresso still had at least two hours before releasing its grip.
After an exhausting day, he once again pulled out his laptop and began to think, "ok, three voices. Three big voices that won't leave me alone. Do I really want to become a college professor? Man, that sounds sexy. Who wouldn't want to be a professor? The job market is like an overly-damp sponge and I've just been told writing and editing is a dying field, so why wait?" The bait had been set. "But is bait really that bad? It's food, after all. Perhaps all food is bait." These circles got him nowhere, so he began part two of the sleep-deprived blog:
Stanley woke up shivering to a thin, pale spider hanging between his eyes. During the night it has spun a web within the dream-catcher as if trying to patch the shoddy work. It was an early day and Stanley had high hopes. With a yawn and a stretch, he grabbed some matches from beneath the bed and soon had a kettle boiling and eggs frying. Today he would be going on a parable into the woods. He was not entirely sure if they had parables here, but he figured they must. How else were people expected to find wisdom and direction?
Just then there was a knock at the door, the force of which caused it to swing open awkwardly, revealing a short old man with stumpy legs and no neck. He appeared to be caught off guard by the faulty door and nervously readjusted his cap. "I saw your fire and thought I might offer my services," he said. He grabbed the brim of his hat, jerked it from side to side and touched his nose as he brought his hand down. "I am a tailor by trade, but a woodcutter by nature. Today is my day off." He stuck out a gnarled hand. "My name is Trent."
"If it's your day off, why are you looking for woodcutting work?" asked Stanley.
"Work? This isn't work. This is my passion. I told you, I'm a woodcutter by nature. You think I do this for money?" said Trent, his hand returning to his cap, then to his nose and down again. "I do what I love, which is cutting wood, and I work doing tailoring, which is not my favorite thing."
Stanley remembered his pathetic blanket from the night before. "Tailor, eh? Any chance you can patch up an old wool blanket?"
"It's my day off." Trent said coldly.
"Oh, right," said Stanly, "my mistake." Stanley told the old man about his plan to go on a parable and asked if it was common in the area. At this, the old man laughed, saying he didn't believe in that romantic rubbish; if he needed a spark of inspiration, he'd much rather find it with a good glass of whiskey in front of a hot kitchen stove. On this he ranted for a solid five minutes, but he eventually got around to mentioning that it was not unknown for some young men (fools, in his opinion) to journey out west for a day or two, see the Stony Falls, and return with a head-full of naive ideas about purpose and joy and daisies, and any slew of ridiculous notions. He had a nephew who traveled out that way, then came back to start a man-powered carting business - a man acting like a mule, the saddest thing you've ever seen. He actually made himself a harness and would race around town doing-
"That's all very interesting," said Stanly, plucking a walking stick from the corner, "but I really must get on my way. Thank you very much for the directions. I may yet be in need of your woodcutting nature. Farewell." And with that he rudely left the old man, not bothering to close the door.
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