Tag: metaphors

500 Words on 50 Shades of Grey

Courtesy Wikipedia

So. Here’s the best way I can think of to communicate my feeling about 50 Shades of Gray, since I don’t know the onomatopoeia for violent projectile vomiting. If I did, I’d just type that word out 500 times. Or go the Spider Jerusalem route, and type the word “FUCK” 500 times. But alas, you’re stuck with the following extended metaphor.

Imagine you live in a small town, with limited contact with the greater world at large. You come up with a great recipe for hamburgers. You work very hard getting the right balance of spices right for your patties so that they have their own distinctive flavor. You put them together with care, making fresh-baked buns, selecting high-quality vegetables, good cheese, the works. The people to whom you serve your burgers give you positive feedback, and you think about how to open a restaurant so that as many people as possible can try out your burgers.

Then someone opens up a McDonald’s down the street from you.

The burgers available at McDonald’s are not the best. They’re not even that good. Sure, they’re convenient, cheap, and satisfying in a passable way to a lot of people, but having tasted them yourself, you know for a fact that it’s a sub-standard product that is, in the long run, bad for you. It advertises itself as some sort of great burger or meal, but you can taste the lie in every bite. In fact, there’s something downright abusive about it, at least as far as your tract is concerned.

Still, McDonald’s is marketed very well. An inexpensive product is an easier one from which to wring a profit. It may not be good for a lot of the population, and it certainly isn’t a great example of nutritional food by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s certainly good business. The people in charge of McDonald’s rake it in as the people eating the food get the wrong idea about what makes good cuisine, drop dead from obesity and cholesterol, and complain about the prices of burgers elsewhere, including the place you tried to open up but had to close almost immediately because McDonald’s drove you out of business.

Hopefully, people understand why you’re bitter, and glare at every set of golden arches you happen to see. However, you can’t stop people from liking what they like, or putting whatever they want into their bodies. As long as people don’t feed themselves entirely on McDonald’s, and make smart decisions in spite of McDonald’s presence, there really isn’t a lot of harm being done. You have a personal beef (pardon the pun) for a variety of reasons, but as long as you’re not being an asshole about it, you’re not going to stop people from consuming something they enjoy.

Okay, I think I’ve made my point. Like I said, it’s difficult for me to think of another way to express myself. So… not seeing the movie, but have fun if you do.

Bad Shed

The time was right. The scales were old, and worn. New skin was eager to emerge beneath. She rested, waiting, avoiding food, her eyes cloudy and unfocused, all but blind. She curled under her favorite rock, out of sight, out of the light. The surface of the rock was rough, as was the bedding in the enclosure. The air was moist and warm, perfect for her. The time was right.

Slowly, deliberately, she rubbed against her rock. She pushed her head forward towards the hazy light ahead of her. The moisture of the air in the open areas of the enclosure kiss her new scales. Inch by inch, she emerges from her old skin. White and dry, it begins to fall behind her. It is a long, difficult process. But it is necessary for her to live.

It isn’t quite halfway along that things start to go wrong. She’s moving forward but nothing is happening. It feels like she’s going nowhere. The more she moves, the tighter the ring of old skin becomes. Her tongue flicks out. The air has gone dry. She is trapped in her own skin.

It is irrational to hate the air, hate the tank, hate the rock that is no longer assisting her. But she can’t hide the frustration. There is a hiss. A waste of precious air. The air is closer, now, more entrapping. It’s getting harder to breathe. This isn’t right. Our skin is not supposed to be our enemy. This is supposed to be an exciting time, a new beginning, the next step forward. Instead, with each passing, gasping moment, it feels like the end.

There is a large shape outside the enclosure. Noise, movement, things that seem superfluous because it’s getting harder and harder to breathe. There is a rush, a breath, moist and warm and welcome across scales old and new. A surge of hope. A burst of energy. Maybe just one more inch. It would be easier to quit, to lay down, to rest, to sleep. Forever. Maybe just one more inch.

She sheds another inch. And another. And another.

When it’s over, she curls up on her branch, near the light she doesn’t comprehend. It’s not as distant or warm or complete as the one outside with the noises and the breeze. It’s closer, and it hums, but it’s warm and welcome and she rests. Her old skin lays forgotten near the rock. It would have killed her. But she was stronger. She was more determined. And she had help, help unlooked for, but help she had needed, help she adored nonetheless.

© 2024 Blue Ink Alchemy

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑