Cold
Cold. Very cold. Very, very cold. Colder than cold. Even colder than that. Cold! If it were any colder I would kill myself out of principle. If nature is going to be such a jerk, then I have no interest in living. Especially without snow. Cold without snow is torture. Maybe not so much torture as it is inconvenience. It is inconvenient torture. Nothing could be so cold and annoying. And cold. Did I mention that it is cold? My hands ache. My toes burn. Maybe I’m dying. That would be sweet. My foot just fell of. It seems to be solid ice.
I am vomiting from my eyes with rage. Rage of fire. Fiery rage. Fiery rage of fury. There is no right for existence to be this cold. Unless there is 8 feet of snow. It can only be cold when it snows. School must always close for snow, whether it snows or not. That this is not occurring is an insult to existence. Cold spits on existence and laughs in its face. Ha, Ha. It spits on me. It spits in my face. Every hair on my body is now a razor sharp toothpick of death. Were I to move I would be cut 100,000,000,000 times. I am scared. The blood would then flow out about one inch. It would then freeze solid and cut off my circulation.
My vomit has frozen. My eyes have become rocks of pelting pain. I must tear them out. Ouch. That hurt. Luckily the gaping holes I left there have frozen to prevent massive blood loss. I would be quivering if I could move. But I cannot. It was difficult to tear out my eyes without moving, but with a little madness and a rabid polar bear to help me it was simple. However, my skull seems to have been torn open. And my right arm eaten. That wasn’t part of the deal. Rabid polar bears are jerks. Especially Steve. Now I’m glad I had sex with his wife. Maybe that’s why he carved all those racial slurs on my back.
Death is not as fun as I thought it would be. Lying here, mutilated by cold and Steve, the green grass, sunny sky and llamas taunting me. Covered in feces. Not just llama feces either. Steve stuffed fecal matter up my nose. Jokes on him, I can no longer breath. That might be a problem. Apparently breathing is important for some reason. Maybe that’s why I have this painful feeling in my chest. You know the feeling you get when someone stabs you in the chest repeatedly with the Empire State Building. That’s how I feel. This is almost as bad as when the llama bit my frozen penis off. It was more embarrassing then painful.
The internal warmth of my body is gone. The permeating warmth that radiates from the bladder is gone. Which make sense since my bladder is a solid block of ice. My entire body is a solid block of ice. Technically its two blocks. A llama stepped on me; its hoof cracked right through my frozen ribcage and split my body right below my nipples. What do I need nipples for? At least the llama then tripped and broke its spine. Wait, I might be dead now. Crossing my imaginary fingers since the real ones were eaten, by me. Maybe. No. Yes. I’m dead. Wow. Being dead is much like being alive except I can’t do anything. Like think. Or write an essay. Or say this exact sentence at this moment. Nope. Can’t do that.
I am vomiting from my eyes with rage. Rage of fire. Fiery rage. Fiery rage of fury. There is no right for existence to be this cold. Unless there is 8 feet of snow. It can only be cold when it snows. School must always close for snow, whether it snows or not. That this is not occurring is an insult to existence. Cold spits on existence and laughs in its face. Ha, Ha. It spits on me. It spits in my face. Every hair on my body is now a razor sharp toothpick of death. Were I to move I would be cut 100,000,000,000 times. I am scared. The blood would then flow out about one inch. It would then freeze solid and cut off my circulation.
My vomit has frozen. My eyes have become rocks of pelting pain. I must tear them out. Ouch. That hurt. Luckily the gaping holes I left there have frozen to prevent massive blood loss. I would be quivering if I could move. But I cannot. It was difficult to tear out my eyes without moving, but with a little madness and a rabid polar bear to help me it was simple. However, my skull seems to have been torn open. And my right arm eaten. That wasn’t part of the deal. Rabid polar bears are jerks. Especially Steve. Now I’m glad I had sex with his wife. Maybe that’s why he carved all those racial slurs on my back.
Death is not as fun as I thought it would be. Lying here, mutilated by cold and Steve, the green grass, sunny sky and llamas taunting me. Covered in feces. Not just llama feces either. Steve stuffed fecal matter up my nose. Jokes on him, I can no longer breath. That might be a problem. Apparently breathing is important for some reason. Maybe that’s why I have this painful feeling in my chest. You know the feeling you get when someone stabs you in the chest repeatedly with the Empire State Building. That’s how I feel. This is almost as bad as when the llama bit my frozen penis off. It was more embarrassing then painful.
The internal warmth of my body is gone. The permeating warmth that radiates from the bladder is gone. Which make sense since my bladder is a solid block of ice. My entire body is a solid block of ice. Technically its two blocks. A llama stepped on me; its hoof cracked right through my frozen ribcage and split my body right below my nipples. What do I need nipples for? At least the llama then tripped and broke its spine. Wait, I might be dead now. Crossing my imaginary fingers since the real ones were eaten, by me. Maybe. No. Yes. I’m dead. Wow. Being dead is much like being alive except I can’t do anything. Like think. Or write an essay. Or say this exact sentence at this moment. Nope. Can’t do that.
posted by Hank at 2:16 PM
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