Blood Out

I enjoy the ones who use words like paradigm and empirical.

Those folk surely have it all together

Not me, though. Little me. I’m just a rotting vegetable eating meat sack, marinating and languishing in my own juices.

Having said that, yesterday, the veins - my veins - broke through this crazy, crawling concrete skin, exiting out and snaking off in all directions, seeking something, anything to bond with other than me, their host.

At least that was the impression I got based on available evidence.

This made me quite a bit sad. Have I become so difficult to live with that my insides want to be outside?

Betrayal is not a strong enough word.

Taking stock of what was left of myself, I tried calming and centering, adopting an arbitrary approach to what was clearly an outrageous and embarrassing situation.

I spoke in thought to my evacuating innards, explaining to the tyrannic tributary traitors

that without me, they were nothing. This was a codependent coexistence and I was its front man.

Prying a pulmonary from a chair leg, I carefully folded it back inside my chest cavity, only to have the mutinous bastard work its way back through my fingers and wrap itself around the TV.

This vena labyrinth of tissue and plasma that had invaded my once living room was now a prison.

I resembled a grotesque, emaciated octopus. Or that alien from Alien 2.

I've dealt with rejection all my life, but nothing could ever prepare me for something of this magnitude

Hell, I've had the pin pulled on me by the best. Generally what happens is they walk away shaking their heads and blaming our association on either a momentary lapse of reason or alcohol or both. I never worried that much; never been big on attachment anyway.

I was an only child that was very much poisoned early on by his own company.

Never always this detached though.

The kicker was the day my imaginary friend ripped my heart out.

“Its not you, it’s me,” said Randell, as he left via a portal at the rear of my closet. I shut down that day.

Moving along.

I haven't budged from this blood soaked sectional sofa in something like 22 hours.

The veins - my veins - have anchored themselves to a variety of heavy objects, and I am pinned down and being held to ransom by my own body. A body I thought I knew well. A body that, until recently, I had no reason to mistrust.

I hate to moan, though. We all have our problems in life. This just took me by surprise, is all, and I really need a change of underwear.

I'll bounce back, no doubt. I always do, albeit anemic and pissed off. And I will extract fair revenge.

I will hammer each and every one of those traitorous scumbags with whatever low-grade heroin I can find, or I will die trying. This is personal.

Cheers