i'm feeling a little bit...unhinged, these past couple of hours. i mean, hell, the drinking sure widened the crack, but lets be honest. i've been cracked since impact. its not a bad sort of unhinging. its not like the school janitor taking all the stall doors out. it more like a locket, carried through both world wars, is finally giving up its secrets to a twelve year old girl(though that sounds like the premise of an uplifting teen fiction novel). its like peeling up the linoleum from the floor & finding hand-etched porcelin tiles or something (what the fuck is up with my home improvement metaphors?).
so all these buzzards are wheeling overhead. waiting for me to trip up.
let me tell you a story about a boy named sean astin (no relation). in 1984 he tripped up, & the buzzards tore him apart, descending like hooded angels to rip into his flesh with their beaks. now, i'm not talking about metaphorical buzzards. these vultures are 100% literal, though probably something like 75% supernatural. think of them as a kind of malevolent poltergeist. they are mostly unseen & mostly annoying, but when push comes to shove? well, they can rip the knives out of the kitchen drawer & throw them right at you. sure, knives are no big deal if you are bruce lee or bruce banner or some other nigh invincible bruce, but you arn't, are you? you're just little old sean astin.