I must admit that “Clockwork Orange” gave me an arousal, I did not know why, but as I watched the leading character (I think it was Malcolm McDowell, or was it Terence Stamp?) being pinned onto a chair and forced to watch violent and horror films, I had the sensation of blood boiling all over my body.
I was beyond angry, for what I had been experiencing in the past few weeks, for being a suspect just by being not empathetic enough to shed a tear for my academic rival who turned out to be a victim of his own stupidity to start an affair with a crazy woman. Why should I be damned for not bother to weep for my rival when he was dead? Since when able to shed tears for any dead became a responsibility of mine – I hardly knew any of them! I lit a cigarette, even it could not put my raging nerves back to normally-successful sedation. I supposed to stop the DVD so I could calm myself down, but I didn’t – as I couldn’t move and I wanted so badly to savor the feeling.
I thought of throwing things onto the wall, screaming out loud, writing fuck, shit, bastard, motherfucker or any kind of violent words I could possibly dig out from my clever brain (or as people around me would have claimed) onto e-mails or papers. Yet I felt numb when actually doing them. I sat on the sofa like a deflated blow-up doll, feeling everything as going wrong. I looked up to the ceiling and everywhere around me, hoping for some signs where I could make things better. My heart sank into disappointment as I looked around slowly, until my eyes land on “Lucifer Effect” at the very bottom of the shelf…I remembered! Didn’t Zimbardo conduct that notorious experiment that earned him the fame? At least he was famous for something worth remembering or tell the world about, unlike the Kashdians or Paris Hilton or those idiots in Big Brother House – being famous for nothing constructive!
I took another gulp of my Carlsberg beer, working in my head for solution. Something that I could spit at the society with, something that would make me famous for something worthy, something that would help me get a better access for my chances to professorship…I scrambled my way through the books on the shelves, this doesn’t work, that didn’t work last time… I sighed as I looked up, my eyes caught in front of the postcards of Pre-Raphaelite painting, with film posters of some 1970s horror film behind them.
Gentleman, I believe I have a plan.