The Thunder Rolls.
I think I have PTSD.
Seriously, every time some asshole construction worker decides to heave a crossbeam from the scaffolding he’s taking apart to the dumpster 25 feet below, instead of handing it to the guy who’s right below him, I have a fucking heart attack. My palms start sweating, I taste the adrenaline in my mouth, all of my senses become heightened, and I begin planning my nearest exit to safety. Whatever commentary this may beget about my awaking to a plane hitting Tower 2 back in ‘01, or tied to my childhood balloon story (goddamn, mother-loving balloons!), this response happens every time I’m exposed to a loud noise. I can’t even drop a stapler at home without wanting to dive into the nearest foxhole. And don’t get me started on those evil little Chinese firecrackers.
But none of these sounds even compares to thunderclaps. The sheer terror that mighty Thor puts into my heart as the thunder rolls across the sky to hit the (only slightly) taller building right next to ours, is absolutely unparalleled. And here’s the worst part: I’m apparently supposed to think that t-storms are SEXY. Good God, that is the last thing that comes to mind, unless you count diving under the covers and cowering my version of a ‘come to bed’ look.You see, every time it rains, I’m convinced that I’m going to get zapped by lightning. It always seems to be right across the street, or hitting the (short) building next door, or making cappuccinos in my kitchen. And if it weren’t me that would be zapped, it’d be my air conditioner as I’m standing next to it, and then my body would be filled with AC shrapnel, and freon gas, or whatever, and I would die a slow, horrible death as the lightning crashes around me.
Or, and here’s the kicker, one bolt of lightning will conveniently start an electrical fire in my apartment, while another one quietly sneaks in through the window and blows up my fire extinguisher. My fire alarm doesn’t go off, because I dismantled it, (she has a voice, and we call her Arlene, and whenever we use the oven she screams ‘FIRE. Firefirefire. FIRE. FIRE. firefire. FIRE.’ in a completely random pattern), and other little cocksucker bolts of lightning go and seal all of the windows. And then my house burns down with me in it, and I see them outside laughing at me, knowing full well that they’ll get acquitted on arson charges, because they have an airtight alibi from their lightning friends who were in Carroll Gardens watching The Love Guru. And then it gets so hot in my house that all of my microwave popcorn starts popping, so at least I have a snack, but then I burn to death.
This is what I think will happen.
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Comments
Non-sequitur: my post-masterbatory sessions usually conclude with the smoking of a large cigar. It’s a Jew/Freud thing. Then I cuddle with my uglydoll.
I tend to chew on my cigars while smoking them. That work for you Dennis?
And also; how would YOU know Grace?
Abe, as Sad-Sigh’s sole reader I’m disappointed that you don’t already know about Denny’s smooth, flat surface which can be best described as this (only because I’m too lazy to find the true image of what I know to be his vacant genitals):
What can I say, other than: learn a new legal doctrine, lose an image of Denny’s non-cock. Such is life in Bar study mode…
In short: ya got me Grace.
This conversation has gotten out of hand.
I hereby wash my hands (and smooth, flat surface) of the entire thing.
I’m pretty sure you’re more likely to die in a fire started by the lit cigarette you dropped out of your mouth and onto your mattress after a fatiguing “under the covers” session. By yourself.