The nine…

So there were nine of them.

It was fantastic.

It was a testament to sloth.

Sometimes, I don’t feel like taking my dishes out to the sink.

I love that I can smoke a cigar in the house once in a great while and no one gives me a lecture, or says it’s fine, but punishes me with cold answers to questions and even colder glances….permission as a favor….I am grateful every day for no permission as a favor in my life. 

That same life style means that I can, if I so choose, eat in front of the TV.

That same life style means that I can just leave my dishes in front of the same TV, all night.

I pick up.

The house is clean most of the time.

It’s a rental.

Who cares?

If you were to come over, you would be impressed.

If you were to come over, you’d totally want to do me.

Until you saw it.

 

 

There is this flash.

Out of the corner of your eye.

A streak of light, or dark.

Moving.

Fast.

 

 

It is my most constant companion and only true friend.

At first I thought it was the drugs.

 

I’m not on drugs now.

But long ago, in another life, I was that guy.

Pupils the size of dimes.

Windows and Doors

 

But not now.

 

Holes in your brain.  It eats holes in your brain.

 

But I’m sure it’s real.  I’m positive.

 

I can’t prove it, but I know it’s there…like hunger or someone to spend the rest of your life with.

 

So I set traps.

 

Dozens of them.

 

Peanut butter.  You can’t go wrong with it.

Great to feed a dog for a good laugh.

Great as a lure for death.

 

I didn’t hear one snap.

I was worried about it too.

 

That moment of silence between a commercial and a show,

Between brushing your teeth and getting in bed,

Between putting on your shoes and slamming the door behind you.

 

Snap

 

And you’d know.

 

You’d think about it.

 

You’d have to look.

 

 

Not one.  I didn’t hear one.

 

But there they were.

Dead.

 

I’d get ready to take the traps down

And I’d think,

One more day.

 

Day after day.

 

At the end….

 

Nine of them.

 

All dead.

 

 

 

Months have passed.

Silence. 

And I’ve become comfortable.

Complacent.

 

The nine deaths, the nine testaments to my sloth, have faded from my memory.

 

I’ve fallen back into old habits.

 

Once and a while, a dish is left out.

Once and a while, the vacuum stays silent for longer than it should.

Once and a while, the cutting board stays dirty for a night.

 

I thought it was a shadow.

I moved my hand in the light from the lamp and swore that’s what I saw.

 

Then I heard the rustling of leaves under the store bought date tree and I knew that one had survived.

 

The traps went back out.

 

But this time, something was different.

 

In the morning, the traps were still set, ready to kill.

 

But the peanut butter was gone.

 

 

 

Days have passed, and each morning I was greeted with defeat.

My enemies were laughing at me. 

Mocking me behind my back.

 

They are ninja, striking silently and leaving no trace.

They are borg, adapting to all my attacks.

They are my enemy.

 

They are there. 

I can’t prove it. 

But they are there, like an itch or an ex girlfriend.

 

So I don’t leave a dish out.

I don’t let the vacuum stay silent very long.

I wash everything,

<p class="MsoNormal”>And I wait.

 

It won’t be skinny enough to dance on those traps forever.

Then I’ll have my proof.

Then I’ll have my victory.