Chapter 57. Your living hell
Strength
Image: closeup of milkweed seeds separating in the breeze.
This idea came to me one day shy of our long-ago anniversary, in the midst of a psychotic narcissist invading a neighbouring country: what would your bespoke version of hell look like? This could be one of my favourite lists of all time because I am truly astonished at how deeply allergic you are to reality and to any form of discomfort.
In your living hell:
You are subjected to a constant soundtrack of screeching love songs on repeat, sung by high-pitched males, alternating with the sound of seventeen women trimming their fingernails and toenails with metal clippers.
There are no soft drinks available. There is only murky lake water in two-litre plastic bottles that, once emptied, are crushed one at a time very close to your ears.
Everywhere you turn, there are long trails of cotton balls, the kind that you would normally ask someone else to pry out of a vitamin bottle for you.
Her Highness is chained in a corner, repeatedly slapped and punched in her smug face and there is NOTHING you can do about it.
At least once an hour, the ugly neanderthal responsible for smacking Her Highness will turn his head and cough up a throat slug at her feet. You used to disgust me with that sound. Now it’s your turn to endure it.
Rain storms are replaced with random explosions of overripe cattails and silky seeds of milkweed that are caught up in noisy, unbalanced ceiling fans and scattered through the air.
Without notice, houseflies will enter your ears and you can’t flush them out. On the rare occasions that their buzzing ceases for a little while, you won’t know if they died inside your ear canal or flew out voluntarily.
Every Monday, the only clothing offered to you is a brand new fuzzy chenille bathrobe that hasn’t been washed. There is no laundry service here.
There is also no take out or food delivery service. You must watch while every meal is cooked for you in a messy kitchen with no recipes and no measuring cups. The components of your meal are served to you in one large bowl in which all the food is touching with lots of runny sauces mixing together. All of the dirty bowls are stacked in a sink full of cold water with food bits floating on the surface. Your toothbrush is kept at the bottom of this sink and no one will help you retrieve it.
Every room is painted in bright zebra stripes of fuchsia and gold or lavender and teal. Not a single white wall anywhere. In the corner of every room, there is an open trash can filled with used tampons and a glass ceiling above you with a dozen long-haired cats watching your every move.
The bathtub is black: very wide and very deep with no discernible bottom to it. There may be a shark circling endlessly underneath you; you’ll never know for sure. There is no shower and the water is always ice-cold. You are given one small towel made of 100% microfibre and it is the size of a wash cloth. It’s plenty big enough to cover your shrunken genitals.
There is a huge black and white TV on every wall, which can’t be turned off, showing reruns of super hero movies in which the hero ALWAYS DIES and there is no justice. You are not able to fast-forward through the credits at the beginning or end of any of these movies.
Once a year, you are allowed to have sex with a girl. However, she is a squirter and the famous rap song from 2020 about female ejaculation is on repeat the whole time you’re fucking. There are no buckets available and no mops, either.
Your only access to a limited number of sites on the Internet is a dial-up modem.
You have zero opportunities for drinking or drugging.
The supervisors of your personal hell are eight beautiful women wearing fuzzy pyjamas who point and laugh at your tiny mushroom dick on a daily basis.
If you happen to fall asleep under these conditions, you will be woken by a dirty feather duster stroking your face!