Pity Party

Every time I pass that window, memories flood my mind like a broken septic tank leaking on to a just-landscaped lawn. It's ruined precious hours of hard work and spotlessness and reeks of putrid shit and all things atrocious. I can even taste the disgusting grime that is your memory. That deep-seated scent of filth within me that countless scrubbing of a hopeless loofah cannot diminish. With the blurred vision of a diagnosed hypochondriac, I follow the tiny speckles of your rancid bacteria with its various forms of shape whose tentacles dance and sway beautifully as they travel from organ to organ infecting it with irreversible defilement. I shudder as they pierce and then enter me, contaminating this mind, this body, and this soul. It's a deliciously grueling feeling; they settle comfortably within me - these parasitical jokes-of-a-monster which must belong since I sent them cordial invitations to join this little party of mine. A transformational, fatal celebration of my catastrophic abduction into that dirty, dirty, dirty life of yours. This party of my physiological anatomy is to commemorate this transgression. Sitting on a filthy bathroom floor half-naked; our legs interlock and you're insides savagely rip apart mine. You see this is no ordinary type of party, it's the type of party where things will be destroyed that can never be fixed and hearts will be broken that can never be mended.

Invitations are limited but expect yours in the mail.