Here’s the story of old righty, chewing and temporal shenanigans.
My tender breasts seem to suggest I’m undergoing a phantom pregnancy, which is unusual, because my girlfriend isn’t pregnant, not to mention the fact that my girlfriend is imaginary. My theory is that I become a soldier in some future war against our microwave overlords who have somehow become sentient and have taken over the world. In order to protect my pregnant girlfriend, I send her back through time and, due to some weird timey-wimey shenanigans, I’m somehow connected to her. Most people would make it their quest to find that girl but I find it highly suspicious that a girl would let me within ten feet of her, let alone impregnate her. So clearly, the baby isn’t mine. She’s damn well had a fling with the milkman because, let’s face it, milk wasn’t a priority on those dark future days to come, and he clearly had some free time on his hands. Not the only thing he had in his hands, too. So if she thinks I’m going to take care of her, she can piss off. I have enough troubles. I have a toothbrush to fix.
Of course, I had a television on top of myself recently, so it’s entirely possible the tenderness is from that. But I’ve had a real mistrust of machines lately. It all adds up. The television landing on top of me. My toothbrush nearly choking me to death. My microwave blowing up in my face. The toaster setting fire to itself, a stupid act but a selfless one that I must commend. My television flickering weird signals at me. It’s all there, readers. The machines are after me. Don’t believe me? What about the lawnmower? I lost control of that recently. Went flying off. Poor lawnmower control on my part? Pah. Hardly likely. It was clearly trying to get away from me. Clear evidence of guilt, methinks. What’s next? Is my toastie maker going to churn out a falafel? It must be. It must be!
There is a distinct possibility I’ve cracked.
I often wonder about things such as phantom feelings. Such an event occurred to me this week. Mother and father have been home for some time now but bad luck continues to follow me like a hobo trying to steal my shoes. And to think, my parents return started well.
I had a tray with dishes on it. Now, I’m a 23-year-old man, so naturally, my bedroom is full of crap. Most notably, a seemingly infinite amount of dishes on the windowsill. I’ve become quite apt at balancing various items on my tray as the tray is only of a limited size. I stacked two glasses, one inside the other, put them along with other items on the tray and began a perilous journey to the kitchen. I made it without incident. Just a few more yards to the sink. I made it again. Ah. Well done Ally. Golden star for effort. I was quite pleased. I fully expected something to go wrong. You know, a trip down the stairs resulting in large shards of broken glass embedded in my head giving me a glass Mohican haircut. Or, you know, a hobo riding a dragon comes swooping down and steals my shoes. Hobos are always trying to steal my shoes.
A genuine delayed reaction occurred. I swear a few seconds went by since I placed the tray down. I had retracted my hand to open the dishwasher and I went back for the glass. Before I’d even touched it, it fell over. WHY IS NO-ONE EVER AROUND WHEN THINGS LIKE THAT HAPPEN? I didn’t touch it, man! It just fell over. One foot of glass. ‘Oh, well’, you may be thinking, ‘at least you weren’t walking down the stairs’. Yes, but I haven’t finished yet. It didn’t fall backwards into the sink, oh no, it fell forwards. Toward my hand, which was caught up in the mêlée of glass shattering hell. My first reaction? Where’s the glue?
Mother advised against using glue. To this day, I cannot figure out why. At least I didn’t cut my hand. Last time I cut my hand on glass, it had 60% volume hot whisky in it. I don’t know if you’ve ever poured alcohol into a freshly open wound. Or, for that matter, 60% volume alcohol. Or, even, 60% volume hot alcohol. Mmm, I don’t advise it. Oh, and yes, you read correctly. This latest glass incident wasn’t a first. It’s happened on many occasions. I’m practically used to it by now.
Although I didn’t actually cut my hand, I got a strange stabbing pain my thumb. At first, I was running with the theory that my thumb was having a heart attack. Meh. I’m left-handed, old righty isn’t that important. But it was just like a glass cutting pain. I became convinced I had some glass in my thumb because it was still hurting a few days later. But there was no cut. I was having a phantom pain. I was feeling a nonexistent injury.
Some would argue this is hypochondria. Oh, no. No, no, no. This pain is real. It’s a genuine pain. Just like a phantom pregnancy. And try telling a sufferer of that their pain isn’t real. They’ll start crying and accusing you of thinking that they are fat. I might start doing that. But not fat. I’m very thin. Maybe I could start crying and accusing you of thinking that I’m too sexy.
I now believe my body has become so prone to pain that it’s expecting it. That it is so frightened of pain it creates it. For example, if I saw a rake on the floor, and I avoided it by walking around it, I’m convinced I would feel the pain of it hitting my head. It’s a new medical condition. I should give it a moniker. I’m quite sure you’re expecting a funny name to end this paragraph on. Nope. It’s serious, people!
Think about the possibilities. Oh sure, right now it’s a phantom thumb pain, whoop-de-do. But what about if I’m crossing a road and a bus is hurtling toward me? Oh sure, I have time to get off the road, but my weird phantom pains don’t know that. I’d probably have a heart attack from the shock. And if that doesn’t finish me off, the bus would as it ran over my lifeless body. And to add insult to injury, a hobo would probably steal my shoes.
You start to doubt reality, readers. I woke up in the middle of the night this week, a rare occurrence as I’m usually a heavy sleeper. Eyes wide open, I sat up suddenly and mimed the word, “ARRRRGH!” I didn’t want to wake anyone up. I have a very logical subconscious. I barely remembered the incident. You know, until the morning when I woke up and mime screamed in agony once again.
I have a wisdom tooth coming through. I have extra teeth. I don’t like extra teeth. They feel funny. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with my food. I have a chewing routine. What do I do with all these extra teeth? Stick to the routine, that’s what. But then I feel guilty. All these shiny new teeth not getting any action. I then have to force the food over to the new teeth. My face festooned with a look of distorted weirdness.
I have 10 extra teeth. 10! I’m 23. My extra teeth I got when I was 16 are still growing they’re so slow. And now I have a tenth. I can’t handle a tenth. I started to wonder if it too was a phantom pain. But it feels quite real. But there was a moment of doubt. A moment that still plagues me even now.
We can never know what is real and what isn’t. I sure as heck can’t. My body has started doing strange things. Making me doubt things. What do I know? My thumb hurts. My gums hurt. Bad luck hunts me down. And my boobs are sore.
What does all this mean? Either I’ve started predicting the future or the last hamster on the last wheel in my head has died.
Take your pick, readers.
No, not that one.
American writer, Jarod Kintz (b. 1982), once said: “I cut an inch off every straw I see, just to make the world suck a little less”.
Peace Out :|:
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