I Couldn’t Sleep Last Night

The room was as black as Onyx.  It was an uneasy slumber.  A blind baby mouse was attracted to the heat abandoning my mouth as yet another nightmare played in my head.  Seeking warmth, he climbed into the crevice and situated himself on my taste buds.  His fur tickled the roof of my mouth and his claws scraped the enamel of my teeth.  He welcomed each breath that warmed him.

Skeletal, the blind mouse yearned to fill his gut.  He couldn’t find anything until he stepped further into the back of my mouth.  His whiskers registered my uvula and teased the back of my throat.  He thought he had stumbled upon a feast.  His teeth punctured my uvula, causing me to awake from my previous nightmare and bellow with unimaginable pain.  Startled, the blind mouse bit even harder and severed the uvula.  I, too, was startled and accidentally swallowed the blind mouse.

He had had his last meal as he traveled slowly down my esophagus, trying to use his claws on the tissue to prevent the fall.  He met his demise in a pool of gastric acid.  He died on a full stomach, nonetheless.

Feeling Faint

Recently I’ve been feeling a little woozy.  My diet has suffered and my stomach continues to gurgle.  I need to eat something.

I should just pull out my small intestine and gnaw on it ’til it rips. It’s like a snake made out of mucous and tissue that’s decorated with braided veins.  These characteristics let the serpent slither about in my body. The snake stays in touch with my stomach by biting down with its fangs so it never loses that connection needed at meal time for proper digestion. It’s quite ropy and slippery, but I can get a good grip on it with my canines if I bite down hard enough.  Allow me to thank evolution for my opposable thumbs, as they’ll surely come in handy in assisting me to tame the serpent.  My canines are sharp enough to the point that I can sever the veins that imprison my half-digested meals. I can ingest the same carbohydrates, lipids, and proteins over and over; hopefully it will satisfy my hunger before I faint and fall on something sharp. I wouldn’t want that sharp object to spill meals all over the carpet and let them go to waste.

I could’ve plunged my arm deep into my esophagus to catch the food before it bathes in gastric acid. This reason, in particular, is why I will choose my small intestine over my stomach. If I pushed my face into a pool of stomach acid like it was a pie-eating contest, the hydrochloric content would burn my skin and ultimately dissolve my entire face. There’s not much I can do if my body melts into some kind of gelatin. You know when people express their pleasure with chocolate by saying, “It melts in my mouth!” Deadly pH levels can make that dream a reality.

Who’s hungry?

Stop Looking At Me

Mona Lisa will not stop staring at me.  It’s either the woman in the painting itself or the ghost of Leonardo da Vinci that makes those eyes follow your every movement.  Collectively, perhaps, they’re studying my body in hopes of rearranging my internal organs so they can use my plentiful blood for paint.  You’re dead and the woman in the painting is forever dried and locked within the frame.  However, I’m already troubled that your image has made its way to the cover of magazines, DVD covers, and an assortment of parodies to add to this insufferable horror.

Yes, Leonardo, you were a genius and still are a genius.  Mona Lisa thrives off of your everlasting popularity, which still gives her that fresh, unnerving stare that never seems to fade over time.  I can feel my eyeballs attempting to sink into my head, breaking the sockets so that they have a little more wiggle room to drown themselves in a pool of nerves and brain fluid.  To hell with the occipital lobe, I don’t want to see you anymore and I want you to leave my house.

My mother insists that you stay because you’re so often celebrated and no house is complete without some variation.  My blood boils at the notion of your presence haunting homes and museums at an international level.  Most people would get arrested these days if they just glared at others all day like you do.

What’s with that stupid smirk?  Do you want to say something?  Are you feeling squirrely?  Are you about to let out a tortuous scream that shatters testicles worldwide?  Just get this horror over with.

Dear College, You’re A Whore

Dear College,

We’re three years into this relationship and you’ve demonstrated your distinct ability to out-whore the most professional Vegas whores. I’ve never come across something so horny and greedy as you are; what a shame that you’re the only legal form of prostitution available in the United States. Your version of goods and services has been sucking everybody dry ever since your conception. You told me that you would guarantee present and future satisfaction in exchange for my money and effort. I thought this was fair enough until I realized you were whoring around with other students on an international level. How much money do you need and why do you need so many people to go in and out of you? Your prostitution empire has grown so large that its impact has surpassed the empires of Spartan kings, saturated with pleasure-seekers.

I always thought we had something special when I chose you out of all the other University whores at my disposal. Your campus was beautiful and full of promise where I can discover my talents as a human being who is floating around in society. It gave me a chance to do what I really love and dispose of what I don’t love. I gave you my blood, sweat, and tears just to satisfy you because I saw you as something more than a whore: I saw you as somebody I’d really love to be with. We became acquainted because I thought we were truly in love. My heart was destroyed when I caught your diseased body bathing in stacks of the population’s hard earned cash. Why do you need all of this money, to improve your image and open up new services? Whatever, whores are quite creative and don’t need stolen cash to operate their brains.

Why not try to love me as I once loved you for a change? My love speaks louder than my money you’ve infected to benefit yourself. This isn’t a dark alleyway between a bar and some strip club, why don’t we express our love elsewhere and without alcohol? I’m glad that you’re willing to teach me something, but what’s with all of the alcohol? Does it improve your image when the population has their spiritual beer goggles on? Are people only willing to enter you as long as they can get plastered at free will?

Eminem was right when he said, “Well I do know one thing though, bitches they come they go.” I’m looking forward to our four years being over, however I’m not happy that I have to then take my business to your whore of a mother, graduate school. Your family business always seems to be doing well, but I’ve come to a realization. I don’t necessarily need your goods and services just to be successful in this world. Just because you’ve installed gobs of information and skills into my brain, doesn’t mean that I’m actually going to amount to anything. I actually have to come 90% of the way and then you can come the remaining 10%. It’s my responsibility to apply myself and not just rely on you for present and future success like so many people do.

Sincerely,

Evan