Miranda’s Imperfect Romance

He was surviving on human kindness.

The wretch that he'd become was fully manifest to his ever probing eyes. Nothing could escape them, not within his private realm atleast.

He was on trial. It had lasted seven years. Numerous judgements were passed down onto the pervert, but the saint always pleaded for clemency. As always it was granted. He was executing himself with such benevolence. How else could this courtroom drama perpetuate.

From his earliest memory, he could recall that he had always been this way. It was innate. Godly aspirations and debilitating perversion. Some of us are just born unto conflict; some of us have conflict borne into them.

Then he saw her. He fell of his seat. No relation, the hinges had come loose. But there she was, a vision. Later realising suspicions that he needed glasses.

Their first meeting was a farce. Well almost all his interludes with society were, why would this be any different.

That’s what he hated about himself. He had to interrupt any given situation with himself. He apologised for his great self-love that co-existed with his general self-loathing. After all he had lent himself so voluntarily yet reluctantly to this grand experiment he was perpetuating upon himself. He was the object of his own interest, could there be anything more self-sustaining?

Isn’t this a story about a certain Miranda? It is but how can one not marvel with such consistency in self-obsession.

Yet, he was sure that this very trait would fail him when he called on it as an exhibit of his perceived uniqueness.

Miranda.

Miranda was a young woman all of twenty two. He found it hard to describe her.

Bimbo. Black widow. Cruella. Phony. Living dead girl.

The list of adjectives was endless. And while they still had a chance, he constantly feared performing violent of acts of great depravity onto her, leaving himself numb at the thought and her in most cases decapitated. Which might, give us a clue as to why this strange courtship never took off.

But there was something about Miranda that had kept her afloat in the recesses of his mind. Could it simply have been the fact that she was to his mind, hot? Now how typical would that be.

He had to rail against this notion as much as he had to rail against the sight of the cleavage she had put on display the first time they had met.

No, no. She’s not a bimbo. Well she sure comes across as one. Who wears a low slung tank top to a tuition class? But it just doesn’t add up. There’s something to her.

Saint optimist takes over.

He flushes the mind of all perversity. Miranda is placed up on a pedestal so high that it would be impossible to get a good look up her short skirt even if he tried.

He feels sickened that he just thought that.