Run for your life if you can, little girl

[cyrano]

I have an overactive imagination. This will not surprise any of you, nor will you think that's terribly uncommon. My imagination, however, is a Russian Jew. If you're later than expected and I can't ring you on your mobile, odds are good that within fifteen minutes I've already processed the horrific auto crash and the emotional impact on all of us who know you, and the back of my brain is chugging along thinking about what songs would be good to play at your wake, and if there's anything I loaned you that I need to get back before the inheritance vultures descend.

My imagination also takes a distinct dislike to certain places. The basement of our home on ninth street, for instance, had a half-finished basement. Both the crawlspace and the storage area under the stairs inspired amazing dread. While trying desperately not to run up the stairs with all the speed I could muster (which worked about half the time), I was vividly imagining roots or tendrils snaking up, grabbing my ankles. I could feel the crunch as my face hit the stairs and my nose broke, which would at least briefly distract me from what came next.

Here in Orion, it's the pool room, but only after sundown. After dark, I don't even want to walk on the patio past the sliding glass door leading in. Especially if the door is cracked. The closer I am, the more uncomfortable I get. And I certainly don't want to turn my back on the pool to try and grab a soda before the dark shape heaves itself to the surface and reaches for me. Sometimes it's a horrific tentacled creature. Sometimes it's just a bloated water logged corpse. Or several of them. Regardless of which it is, the result is still the same--overpowering, dragging, and drowning. The burn of chlorine in my nostrils, the creep of my flesh just before the first drop of water falls on my skin, the unexplained noise, each precursor to certain death pushes me further into reptile brain panic no matter how hard the frontal lobes try to keep the party from getting out of hand.

The ironic thing is, one of these days I'm going to hurt myself from trying to move too quickly. I'll slip on the wet concrete, or I'll jam my wrist as I try to speed twist the doorknob.

And then, when I'm momentarily vulnerable, they'll grab me and drag me under. FML.

Comments

[mnarra.livejournal.com]

My imagination, however, is a Russian Jew. If you're later than expected and I can't ring you on your mobile, odds are good that within fifteen minutes I've already processed the horrific auto crash and the emotional impact on all of us who know you, and the back of my brain is chugging along thinking about what songs would be good to play at your wake, and if there's anything I loaned you that I need to get back before the inheritance vultures descend.

If you weren't already manifesting as a deific creature of my personal pantheon, this would have sparked your ascension. If Gaiman, Adams, and Moore had a threesome, you would be the lovechild....

[cyranocyrano.livejournal.com]

Awwww! Now, see, things like this make me think that I should stop fucking around and goofing off, and actually exert some discipline and learn to write.