Delusions Again
by Duncan Bowsman (2011)

You are Kevin Masters, a gloomy man in a diner with your friend Jim. Something is wrong with you for some ambiguous reason involving a woman named Marilyn.

action: %
response: You've been in a funk. Friends have said you're distant ever since Marilyn. Sometimes you think, maybe you could be happy if only... a nice family... hmmm... hot porridge in the morning, a good memory. If only things between you had been different.

But, no, that's not for you. Another, more assured part of your brain says you're having delusions again.
Delusions Again

You have always enjoyed this diner before, but now it just feels forced. Tacky attempts at some sort of art deco diner atmosphere crowd all around you. Nothing feels right. Jim sits across the from table from you, silent but supportive. A listless rain pours on outside.

You can see a table (on which is a plate of chicken fingers) here.

Jim glances carefully at you from over his plate of chicken fingers. It reminds you briefly of the time before your futile mission to locate something better in life. A fleeting mission you intend to abandon, no less, but that's just like you. Jim still hasn't given up on you.
action: You examine Jim
response: His mussed hair has fallen over his eyes. Now you've probably gone and gotten him downcast, too. From time-to-time, he glances at you half-expectantly.

Like a good, patient friend, he's waiting for you to talk to him.
action: About yourself
response: Kevin Masters, only you feel least of all a master at the moment, and more like a slave to a fate... ennui... and your own self-loathing.
action: You examine the plate
response: Jim's (you never ordered anything today).
action: You talk to Jim
response: "I've decided," you tell Jim. "I've really made up my mind this time. There's nothing else for it."

"But decided what, Kev? I... I wish I could understand what you've been going through. It's like you've been on Pluto for the past few months. I just want to help." He sweeps his hair away briefly and folds his hands thoughtfully, semi-pleadingly. "Is it Marilyn?"

"Maybe they should just bury me now," you say. "We could mark it The Tomb of the Unknown Tool."

"One of those already exists, you know," Jim informs you, but it sounds no less pithy to you.
action: You talk to Jim
response: You struggle to form words decent enough to express your troubles. "I've just been having these... explosions in the vacuum of my braintree."

"Explosions?"

"Ripples... tiny, crackling shocks. An inevitable rot. Can't be fixed."

"It is Marilyn, isn't it? Has she... done something?" You cannot answer. Words lapse again into silence.
action: You talk to Jim
response: You sigh. "No, it doesn't matter. I've made up my mind. Get me to the church, Jim."
action: You examine table
response: A checkered, but scratched table. The scratches momentarily entrance you.

On the table is a plate of chicken fingers.
action: You examine the rain
response: A resigned pattering. Fitting, somehow. It should be a night, you feel, wet and tragic.

It reminds you that you've been full of "somehows," and "only ifs" lately.
action: You look at the typewriter
response: The mindless posters, advertisemnts of a bygone age. A 100 year old typewriter, probably useless. A vacuum cleaner... dusty, disused, an irony not unlike yourself. No doubt someone thinks this all looks classy. You used to.