You Got Some Serious Issues, Bud
You are one sick individual.
After a full night of much-needed sleep, your dreamscape fades away as your senses slowly return. You feel the soft, well-worn mattress underneath you and the plush comforter wrapped tightly around you. You hear the faint rattling of the spinning ceiling fan above you, sending cool air down to brush against your exposed face. You smell a sweet scent wander in from the kitchen to caress your appreciative nostrils. You unseal your eyelids, welcoming into your rested mind the sight of a perfect Sunday morning.
You can’t help but smile.
A dog, your dog, a Pomeranian named Tootsie, hops onto your bed and scurries up to your face. She shakes with excitement. You give her furry body a gentle rubdown as she licks the crusties from the corners of your eyes.
Obviously, the love Tootsie feels for you is immense. It’s undeniable. She would do absolutely anything for you. You are the single most important person in her entire dog-life. She trusts you one-hundred percent.
Knowing that, you grab her by the neck, shove her head into your ass, and fart right in her face.
…wait, what?
Why…why did you do that?
You didn’t need to do that. Tootsie didn’t want you to do that. She didn’t deserve that.
I don’t…I don’t understand…
Why did you do that?
…um, okay, anyway, Tootsie, now covered in your farts, flees from the bed as you sit up and reach both hands toward the ceiling, stretching the sleep from your body.
Spasms of pleasure move down your arms and the muscles lining your back. You feel a slight soreness in your pelvis. What could’ve caused that? The answer comes dancing in through your bedroom door.
“Oh, hello there, sleeping beauty,” Raphael says, holding a plate of freshly-cooked bacon and eggs. Raphael is the sexy art student you fucked silly last night. He’s currently pants-less. His swinging penis slaps against his toned and hairless thighs. “I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed some ingredients to make you this morning feast. It’s the least I could do…after last night.”
Raphael sits his naked ass on your bed and presents you with the piping-hot breakfast he must’ve spent at least an hour preparing.
You bring it closer to your face. It looks and smells delicious. You smile at Raphael. He smiles and winks back. You smash the plate over his head. “Fuck you, Raphael,” you say to him, purposefully mispronouncing his name. “You were terrible last night.”
…are you kidding me?! That guy just cooked you breakfast! He didn’t have to do that! And you and I both know he performed spectacularly last night!
“Your mother was right about you,” you continue. “You are an empty-headed dreamer with no future.”
Oh! My! God! How dare you?! That took a lot for him to share that with you!
Egg yolk and tears run down Raphael’s face. His devastated penis slaps wildly as he tumbles off the bed and runs out of your room.
He makes it halfway to the front door, before slipping on a puddle of Tootsie’s urine.
He lands hard on the ground. His body goes limp. A pool of blood grows around his busted head.
You feel nothing. You do nothing.
What…the hell…is wrong with you?! Get up and help him, you monster! Can’t you see that he’s-
Oh, wait, never mind, you’re getting up from the bed and rushing toward him.
Thank God! Finally you start acting like an actual human being!
You reach Raphael, pull down your pants, and start shitting on his twitching body.
…Jesus Christ.
A knocking comes from the front door. “Is everything okay in there?” someone asks from the other side. “I heard a loud crashing sound!”
It’s your neighbor Dorothy. She’s seventy-eight years old. She watches Tootsie while you’re away. She bakes you pastries. She considers you family. Please, I’m begging you, leave her be.
“Yes, someone is hurt!” you say. “The door is unlocked! Come in quick!”
Oh, no…
Dorothy opens the door and witnesses you defecating on a pants-less man bleeding to death on your apartment floor.
She clutches her chest. “Oh my goodness!” she wails. “My heart!”
“Tootsie!” you yell. Tootsie runs in from the living room and sits next to you, awaiting further orders. You point at Dorothy. “Eliminate.”
Tootsie shoots through the air like a dog-missile. Her target is Dorothy’s face. She hits it dead-on.
“Tootsie, no!” Dorothy screams, flailing around as the tiny dog viciously attacks her head. “It’s me! It’s your friend Dorothy! Don’t you remember me?!”
Tootsie doesn’t remember anything but her orders. She keeps her jaw clamped to Dorothy’s face as the old woman stumbles backward, out of your apartment.
You finish shitting on Raphael’s corpse, close the front door, and return to your bedroom.
“Time to catch a few more z’s,” you say to yourself, as I call the fucking police.
