Yoga fire!
Listen: it is tick season. This may be a joke to you . . . you may be laughing . . . and if you are, I say to you, in a stern voice, "WHAT THE FUCK IS SO FUNNY?!" Last weekend Amish came crawling in through the dog door of my apartment. His muzzle was dry. His eyes had gone cakey at the corners. His fur was matted with bog mud and burrs. "What's wrong, boy?" I asked, but already I knew. Lyme disease. I flipped him onto his back and sure enough, a damn tic the size of a KG Koolie was latched teeth first into his belly. I pulled that sucker off. It took four days to squeegie up the blood.
. . .
In high school I bought a typewriter at a liquidation sale. That typewriter was terrible. I tried to write an SF/horror story about some guy who found himself in a torture compartment designed so he would eventually drown in his own sweat and urine. Then I found out, years later, that the BTK killer (I think it was him) had designed a similar device. Of course, he wasn't using a typewriter.
And if you're curious, that story sucked. I never finished it.
One of the things that dismays me about my hobby is I look back on everything over a year old that I wrote and I want to wad it up, light it on fire, and toss it into a crowd of hobos. Stories I wrote in college = hobo fire. Stories I wrote in high school = definite hobo fire. Is everything I create doomed to the hobo fire?
But the stuff I wrote in high school . . . that stuff really sucked. Whew. Damn. I was basically Stephen King minus 46 orders of skill. Meaning I wrote about weird deaths.
. . .
I'm really desperate now. Maybe you can tell. I want to read something interesting but the blog is empty—is void! of post-Amish-getting-laid material--and the best I can do is smack some more graffiti up there.
. . .
Here are some questions. If you choose to answer, you can answer in the comments in the following format:
1) A
2) B
3) B
If you stray from that format you will be strangled sometime when you least expect it. Likely it will be this weekend, and likely it will be at night. You will be chatting up the corner flower vendor, buying roses for your girl, when suddenly you feel the cold damp breath of death on your neck. Then the piano wire—or the wound up yarn—will tighten around your meaty throat, and that will be all:
Actually, I will not ask you any questions at all, because the silly ones were too silly and the serious ones were too serious. But I will leave this in, so you will know how I could appear behind you at any moment, or at least any moment when you are buying flowers, alone.
. . .
In high school I bought a typewriter at a liquidation sale. That typewriter was terrible. I tried to write an SF/horror story about some guy who found himself in a torture compartment designed so he would eventually drown in his own sweat and urine. Then I found out, years later, that the BTK killer (I think it was him) had designed a similar device. Of course, he wasn't using a typewriter.
And if you're curious, that story sucked. I never finished it.
One of the things that dismays me about my hobby is I look back on everything over a year old that I wrote and I want to wad it up, light it on fire, and toss it into a crowd of hobos. Stories I wrote in college = hobo fire. Stories I wrote in high school = definite hobo fire. Is everything I create doomed to the hobo fire?
But the stuff I wrote in high school . . . that stuff really sucked. Whew. Damn. I was basically Stephen King minus 46 orders of skill. Meaning I wrote about weird deaths.
. . .
I'm really desperate now. Maybe you can tell. I want to read something interesting but the blog is empty—is void! of post-Amish-getting-laid material--and the best I can do is smack some more graffiti up there.
. . .
Here are some questions. If you choose to answer, you can answer in the comments in the following format:
1) A
2) B
3) B
If you stray from that format you will be strangled sometime when you least expect it. Likely it will be this weekend, and likely it will be at night. You will be chatting up the corner flower vendor, buying roses for your girl, when suddenly you feel the cold damp breath of death on your neck. Then the piano wire—or the wound up yarn—will tighten around your meaty throat, and that will be all:
Actually, I will not ask you any questions at all, because the silly ones were too silly and the serious ones were too serious. But I will leave this in, so you will know how I could appear behind you at any moment, or at least any moment when you are buying flowers, alone.
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