Fall from grace

I am far too attached to my mechanical li'l monsters.

By that I mostly mean my cellphone. Upon possessing a phone, within a week it becomes an extension of my soul. Losing one is among my more traumatic life experiences. Which only goes to show what a sheltered city-slicker brat I am.

But it's OK. I have no trouble with admitting I'm pathetic. What I do have trouble with is dropping my cellphone on a wet toilet floor.

Sure, it's not a gross toilet or anything. But it IS a public domain. Y'know, a surface people tread on with their shoes. And it's wet, which makes it worse for reasons I don't care to explain - psychologically, wet is icky. (That's how the city slicker brain works; deal with it.)

And I've dropped on that surface something I have to press to my goddamn face occasionally. Although thanks gods I text more than I talk. But still...

Just dropping it is already bad enough. I don't take lightly things like damage to extensions of my soul. Even if it is a pretty crappy soul to begin with.

Ah well. Good thing my period was over a week ago. I'd never be able to handle this coolly on a hormone-infested brain. Heads would fucking roll. As it is, heads will merely turn at my loud, (mostly) unwarranted swearing.

~ ~ ~

Wrath is not a sin, but a natural impulse that needs rightful release*.
Serpent 5:10

*Preferably upon inanimate objects.

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Death, In Alphabetical Order

Who doesn't secretly love to see children perishing in various horrific and occasionally impossible ways? Ever wished your brat cousin would swallow some tacks? (Or felt tempted to slip some in his milk?) How about an obsessive-compulsive desire to list the random murders you see in the news in alphabetical order?

Well, now you can have all that - and in lovely illustrations too. After all, delicate stomachs like mine can't handle the actual gore of death in photographic glory. But it does enjoy the same thing depicted in finely crafted ink.

. . .

I'm just kidding. I don't feel the fancy to murder kids - except for a special few - and have certainly never slipped thumbtacks into someone's drink. (I only go as far as spiking the Christmas punch.) But whatever your tastes, The Gashlycrumb Tinies by Edward Gorey is a masterful piece of work.

Do read the whole thing if you have a few minutes. I've also included my favourite bits below.

In those skeletal sunken eyes is all the reason you will need to love this.

She actually covered quite a lot of ground there. At least it wasn't an easy surrender.

I don't know how the fuck you die from ennui. But the thought is faintly amusing.

If that dark frozen little figure does not give you awesome chills, you are dead inside.

Alone. Cornered. Robbed of all hope. A shitload of man-eating mice. And a load of shit in your pants.

By the way, may I recommend listening to Akira Yamaoka's Silent Hill soundtrack while you're reading the whole thing. Specifically, Claw Finger and Fear Of The Dark.

Enjoy.

~ ~ ~ ~

Fear the little children, for the most evil of men and women were children once too.

Serpent 13:13