Wednesday, 3 July 2013

chopped liver

Last night before I went to sleep, I threw myself trough a plate of glass and sliced my thumbs off with a butcher’s knife.  I don’t why.  Well I kind of know why.  I couldn’t sleep.  I tried a cold cup of tea with cat hair in it, but that didn’t do anything except taste delicious.  I wanted to wake up my handsome neighbour, Doug, and tell him about it, (he’s a bit of a foodie) but I crawled through his bathroom window to find him already wide awake.  He was actually in the middle of a particularly violent home invasion, and I found myself once again in a depressingly familiar situation.  Bare feet aching at the chill kiss from cold bathroom tiles, watching a better looking acquaintance, bound to the toilet, play dartboard for a balaclava clad psychopath with throwing knives. I stood there, hopping from numb foot to numb foot wondering what am I, chopped liver?  I mean I know for a fact that Doug both closes AND locks his front door precisely to prevent this sort of situation from recurring.  I don’t even have a front door, and do you know the last time I was tortured on the toilet?  June.  That’s when.  June.   I left Doug’s cup of tea next to the pliers and butane torch on the windowsill and saw myself out.

Back home, still wide awake, I pretended to be a ghost for a while.  I tip toed around the house, moaning and dragging my favourite chains, but my heart wasn’t really in it.  I gave up and thought maybe I would make another cup of tea but the cat wasn’t having any of it, so I climbed up onto the kitchen sink, crouched like a swimmer on the blocks, and waited.  When I heard the pistol crack from next door I dove strait through the kitchen window, landing laughing and bloody on the dewy AstroTurf of my backyard.  I lay back, head ringing happily, and smiled up at the stars projected by blurry eyes across the blotchy night sky.  As for my thumbs? Well, fuzzy heads and frosty mornings breed strange inspiration, we go with it, and sleep sweet dreamless ink.

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