Monday, May 20, 2013

My Mom Told Me To See A Therapist



Lately, I've been imaging a random stranger walking up behind me in a bathroom, smashing my skull open with a steel pipe, and finding a padlocked wooden treasure chest lodged in my brain.

The stranger picks the lock with a bent paper clip and bobby pin until it clicks open, revealing a naked, sweaty, clean cut man with ample body hair in all the right places. ALL the right places. Get me?

Okay.

So the naked, sweaty, clean cut man with ample body hair steps out of the box, fully grown, grabs a teal blue towel off the rack on the wall, and buries his face in the fibers as he carefully tiptoes over my decapitated body.

He drops the towel, runs his left hand through a brown clump of hair before saying to the stranger:

"Hey buddy, thanks for freeing me from that box. Really appreciated! Been in there for almost twenty five years now. In the fetal position. Living off the digested fast food nutrition," he points at my body with a pruned index finger,"this asshole ingested. Surprised I even look this good! Haha."

The stranger stares blankly into the bathroom tile, watching the streams of blood fill the crevices outlining the tiles.

"Thanks man! Like really. Now I can finally start my life, college, career, wife, kids, two story house, with an inground swimming pool and garden in the backyard, the works! The kind of happiness that happens on those family sitcoms people watch in their homes with their children on Thursday nights. You know, like The Office?"

The blood from my body has filled every crevice and has started to overflow onto the tile.

The naked, sweaty, clean cut man with ample body hair picks the towel off the ground, puts it over his head and starts moving it back and forth, while the stranger sighs, grips the pipe, and takes a couple of practice swings.

He's got time.

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