So there I was, yet again, just like yesterday and the day before that. Sitting on the shitter for the fourth time that day, only this time was different, cause this time was jerk off time.
I always liked that part of my day, the shit-shower-shave-not-necessarily-in-that-order time, interspersed with a little beat off, a little dolphin flogging, a little chicken choking. Yes, it was good to whack the weasel after a nice shit, blow a load into a piece of toilet paper, then flush the whole affair into the septic system without a second's thought. Then it was jump into the shower and fucking pass out after a long shitty day.
Life sucked back then; it sucks now, but I'd like to believe that it sucked worse then, working fucking twelve, thirteen goddamn hours in the same shithole vacuum factory under the same shithole boss and next to the same shithole coworkers. You spend that much time in a place, and man oh man, you wanna fucking kill someone or at least grab'em by the hair and bang their head against the wall a few hundred times.
Anyway, the point of this aimless bullshit rambling is that the best part of my day at the time was the jerk off shit, although nowadays my priorities are a little different, yessirree, quite a bit different, ever since it happened. What happened, you say? Why the Jerk Off Baby, of course. Yeah, life was a whole lot fucking different before it was around, definitely fucking different.
Guys like me never thought of babies, let alone Jerk Off Babies, never thought of the little bastards at all. Back then, if you had asked me the last time I had gotten laid, I woulda said, what? And then I woulda laughed. Last time I got laid, yeah, whatta fucking hilarious joke.
You see, when you look like how I do, you just don't get fucking laid. Guys with faces like mine don't get fucked, don't get sucked, don't even get touched. But hey, I guess it's like some kind of fucking funny joke to walk up to a guy with one goddamn eye and a scar you could sink a battleship in and spout off some shit like that. You know what I say to that? You fucking try getting winged by some old geezer in a goddamn Buick, take a nice shiny chrome side view mirror to the face, spend two months in a hospital, then come out looking like I do. You just try having that shit happen to you and see how fucking funny that little comedic gem is now. But I digress.
The Jerk Off Baby incident marked the first time in my life where I felt wanted, felt needed by someone besides my bullshit drug addict sister and my waste of fucking space parents. My parents died a few years back, so they quit mooching, but my sister still to this day calls me for money, not that I would spend more than a brief second on a phone call from that cunt anyway. But really, the Jerk Off Baby incident changed everything profoundly, and it all started with a toothbrush.
A toothbrush changed my life you inquire? Why yes, yes it did, and fuck you very much for asking. It was a toothbrush that alerted me to the presence of something else, something almost surreal, the idea that a world beyond what I believed could exist, did actually exist. Yep, a toothbrush started it all.
You see friends and neighbors, ladies and gents, fuckos and fuckettes, I keep a clean house. Yeah, I live in a goddamn cardboard box apartment building with a bunch of morons, losers, and drug addicted derelicts who keep their apartments about as nice as your average New York City subway station, but my apartment is clean. It may not be nice, but it sure as shit is clean.
I don't mean to brag, but my bathroom is spotless. I like my toothbrush in a cup to the right of the sink, and I like my shit-stink candle to the left. My mirror never has any of those white speckles on it from aggressive flossing, and my toilet never has a spot of turd in the bowl, not even if I have a bad case of the squitters. I live for cleanliness; I would die for organization.
So I come home Wednesday, hump day as some mentally challenged people call it, Wednesday as I call it, walk into the lava-tree, and immediately notice that my toothbrush is upside down in its cup. I always leave the damn thing right side up so that the bristles will dry out, but I thought, hey, I was kinda tired this morning, maybe I just shoved it in there like a sloppy drunk trying to get his dick wet in a fat chick. After rinsing it several times in the sink, I put it back in its correct position and sat down on the pot to play the skin flute.
The next day, I came home from my miserable day at work to start a miserable night at home, but when I went to sit down and bash the candle, I saw it. My toothbrush was to the left of the sink, but the cup was still in its place at the right of the sink.
Now I know, you full-of-life motherfuckers, that this all sounds like some tired bullshit an old lady would let flop out of her mouth right before she farted and accidentally shit her pants, but I'm fucking telling you, man, it was creepy. Like some weirdo had been in my goddamn house, messing around with my shit.
I was a bit shaken after considering that fact, but not shaken enough to go to bed without auditioning the finger puppets. I mean, come on, applying the hand brake is my only true pleasure in life, and I'm sure as shit not ashamed to admit that fact.
For the next few days, the toothbrush appeared in various locations in the bathroom, such as threaded neatly through the rings on the shower curtain, tucked under the bathmat, and even thrust deeply into a bar of hand soap I keep in the shower. I was starting to think that I was losing my goddamn mind. I had the only key to my apartment as there was no super in the building, and I suppose someone could've broken in, but why wouldn't they trash the place, or rifle through my belongings, or fucking shit in their hands and write "YOUR DAY OF RECKONING IS COMING!" in big goddamn smelly brown letters?
I was losing sleep, hearing every noise from the drug-addled sociopaths in my building and thinking it was the toothbrush mover coming to take my toothbrush, shove it up my cornhole and then yank it violently out and brush my teeth with it. When I did sleep, I had constant dreams of sinister, shadowy figures rearranging other items in my meager household; you know, putting my pots and pans on the fire escape, throwing my couch upside down, putting all the food in the refrigerator in my bed while I was sleeping in it. You know, real reasonable ass shit like that. It was really fucking taking a toll on my sanity.
Now, the toothbrush incident was strange enough, but the things that happened next sealed the deal, took the cake, buried the hatchet so goddamn deep that Lou Ferigno on PCP couldn't pull the fucker out. Having your shit moved around is one thing, but the events that followed the toothbrush debacle were so heinous in nature that I still can barely even believe they happened.
Submitted August 10, 2015 at 10:54PM by KnobDingler http://ift.tt/1P1BiqK nosleep
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