If tiny brown infected mice were being chased through the sewer by technology and corporate sludge they would spill from a tub faucet into my brain as beeps. The beeps come. Over and over. Beating against my white porcelain head trying to scratch and chew their way through my brain to freedom on the other side, leaving stains of rust and disgust. With every nibble another curse spills into my brain.
Gray matter is forced through the chewed screen and chased across the scuffed floor hardly scathed by the screeches and falling brooms. And if I stay still, I might see Poison in the corner of my eye. Hitching a ride on that same apathetic mouse. Waving at admiring fans and choking on fumes, but hell bent on making her reign inside my brain. It's no wonder the funk wins out in the end. The beauty queen may lose respect, but she never really loses.
Its not atrophy until someone loses a limb!
My thighs feel like they're filled with the makings of an omelette. Nothing's going on. Thick mud moves through my veins with no intentions of nourishing the poor African village on my knee caps. If the mice were to make it through the layers of petrified cells into my blood stream they would choke and sputter, backing up behind the fat kid on the slide. Beep.
Fat kid gets stuck.
I can sense the sun is setting. Confirmation only comes when a stream of light pierces my retina and wakens the page boy sleeping quietly in the corner. Jab, nudge, poke. Darkness will soon follow. Darkness to match my mood. Black like mouse poop. Like a starving African village. Like the beauty queen's soul. Black like dead brain matter. Beep.