Toenails
MorbidbookS. Read Like The Devil. (16 Oct. 2015)
There was a time when toenails were plentiful and I could swallow one down while pressing the button for eight more minutes of blissful sleep.
Clamminess washed over me. There was no way I would be able to make it to work like this. I needed toenails to start my morning right. In the grips of withdrawal I could not think of anything other than toenails and scoring toenails. Toenails were all that mattered.
Ripping the duvet away from the wife was the difficult part. She held it in death’s grip beneath her chin and tucked between her legs. I became used to never having any blanket – not even a little patch. I would crank up the heat when I woke with my midnight toenail cravings regardless of the season; a little bit of spite courtesy of good ol’ dad. My wife would still be reluctant to liberate the duvet despite sleeping in a pool of her own sweat that turned the flakes of dead skin into slush. I once tried to satisfy my cravings with this skin slush; day-long diarrhoea left me on the toilet and the family had to use the outdoor one.
Shaking, it was more difficult to pry the duvet away from her. The withdrawals became worse each day. It seemed her grip on the duvet became tighter as the withdrawals became worse - her subconscious conspiring against me. The back of her mind knew I was no good for her and should trade her in for a younger model.
I only needed access to her feet. Toe jam wasn’t as good a substitute for toenails as dick cheese but I needed to make it into work today and every other day for the rest of the fucking year. The board of directors were the biggest bunch of loser arse-ferrets this world has ever seen. I could not even provide an accurate description of what it was I did all day or a clear title for the job that would be on the line if I had a sick day.
MorbidbookS. Read Like The Devil. (16 Oct. 2015)
There was a time when toenails were plentiful and I could swallow one down while pressing the button for eight more minutes of blissful sleep.
Clamminess washed over me. There was no way I would be able to make it to work like this. I needed toenails to start my morning right. In the grips of withdrawal I could not think of anything other than toenails and scoring toenails. Toenails were all that mattered.
Ripping the duvet away from the wife was the difficult part. She held it in death’s grip beneath her chin and tucked between her legs. I became used to never having any blanket – not even a little patch. I would crank up the heat when I woke with my midnight toenail cravings regardless of the season; a little bit of spite courtesy of good ol’ dad. My wife would still be reluctant to liberate the duvet despite sleeping in a pool of her own sweat that turned the flakes of dead skin into slush. I once tried to satisfy my cravings with this skin slush; day-long diarrhoea left me on the toilet and the family had to use the outdoor one.
Shaking, it was more difficult to pry the duvet away from her. The withdrawals became worse each day. It seemed her grip on the duvet became tighter as the withdrawals became worse - her subconscious conspiring against me. The back of her mind knew I was no good for her and should trade her in for a younger model.
I only needed access to her feet. Toe jam wasn’t as good a substitute for toenails as dick cheese but I needed to make it into work today and every other day for the rest of the fucking year. The board of directors were the biggest bunch of loser arse-ferrets this world has ever seen. I could not even provide an accurate description of what it was I did all day or a clear title for the job that would be on the line if I had a sick day.
