Sometimes I can't help but panic; panic like a domesticated hedgehog who's cage is kept next to a collection of dirty jars on a day when the home owner is preparing various fruits for some sort of jamming, and with the sponges all mysteriously absent, and I'm not suggesting for a moment that something sinister has taken place, there's no great sponge conspiracy, and I've faced and overcome my fair share of sinister absent sponge conspiracies (for the record, in my opinion at least, four is fair, it's enough that you're still learning techniques to find and grasp justice, but not so many that future justices would feel cold and absent of rage erasing ecstasy), and I'm not even suggesting that the hedgehog will end up in those jars as a handy substitute for the missing sponges, not all, I'm blatantly implying it, because of course that will happen, she's making jam, those jars MUST be cleaned, that's why the hedgehog is panicking, well also because the household also has a pet snake that's allowed out of its terrarium for an hour every Tuesday afternoon, I mean this hedgehog has it tough. So yeah, I panic.
And I shudder, shudder like a park bench in a park that's got trees that drop nuts, on a day when the park bench just got diagnosed with a nut allergy, and no one cares, people don't even believe it, they think it's just jumping in on a trend, and while I am no doctor, I'm pretty sure I could diagnose a kid with a nut allergy, just shove piles of nuts in its mouth, and maybe cut his skin a little and rub some peanut butter into the wound, and if he complains or cries he has a nut allergy, but benches don't have mouths, and their skin is notoriously bad at soaking up buttered spreads. So yeah, I shudder.
And I'll cry, I'll cry sobbing tears of sadness, which are the sobberingest tears, and those are full and rich tears, some of them are so salty that they have potato chips hanging off them, which of course reminds me that I'm trying to cut back on chips, and have been ever since I discovered the seventeen family sized bags a day I've been eating are literally taken out of the hands of families, and I'm like, what? They're taking chips out of the hands of families, and I'm eating the chips, but I don't get a god damn invite to be part of the taking ceremonies? Oh so now I don't like making children cry? I don't like seeing people suffer? I don't like hearing dads say to their broods 'everything will be alright' knowing full well that we ALL know full well that this is a lie, and that now that the thread of the first lie has been picked at its only a matter it time that the entire scarf has been stuffed in his mistresses vagina? I apparently don't want to be there for that? Because of COURSE I do. So now I'm crying even harder, the chips are getting fuller and in a wider variety of fun and delicious flavors, and this is attracting birds which are pecking at my face, and some of those chips have artificial bird flavoring, like chicken, turkey, and endangered cavern hawks! So yeah, I sob.
Oh and I tremble, I don't know, like a leaf or some shit. So yeah, I tremble.
And I definitely wolf whistle, wolf whistle as a nervous tick to cover up my astute nervousness, at being nervous at people finding out that I wolf whistle when I'm nervous, which isn't that bad all together, I don't get in trouble from the ladies, because I only wolf whistle at hedgehogs, who frankly could use the positive attention. So yeah, I wolf whistle.
In fact at least once or twice a DAY, you'll find me panicking, shuddering, crying, trembling and wolf whistling, and for a very good reason, there's been something on my mind, a horrifying thought, a terrifying thought, and a devastating thought:
Where would the world be right now if there had never been a Sweden?
Oh my god, just writing that has set off an attack of symptoms so bad that there are three crows currently chewing New York Cheddar and Icelandic Fjord Based Goose Feather Flavored Kettle chips off my face.
Because the answer to the question is devastatingly clear:
The world would be in the exact same place physically, but our overall enjoyment of it would be slightly diminished.
I mean the only meatballs we'd have would be Italian meatballs, that's not enough meatball variety, it just isn't.
Plus the World Cup Handball Championships would be slightly less competitive.
It's pretty hard thought to swallow.
I guess I just have the type of dark mind that can't help but ponder such horrific possibilities. It is my curse, it is my shackles, it's the reason I don't think I'm capable of true happiness.
Meh, then again, I have survived four massive sponge absence conspiracies, maybe I'm just being a tad hard on myself.