Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Creeping Momentum Part Two
I've been staring at this moldy growth for a week now. On and off, you know, when Jeopardy isn't on television. My hand is growing numb in spots. The pads of my fingers, the webbing next to my thumb. The sensitive places. I've considered removing this second skin. I could scrape it off with a razor. I could douse it with alcohol. Even light it on fire. There's probably a thousand remedies for spore growth on human skin. Hell, it might even peel right off. Like Elmer's glue.
Thing is, I really like it. My mold grows very, very slowly. Each day a millimeter here, a millimeter there. It's patient. Lazy. Like me. I think I'll let it continue, even though it might eat me. I'm okay with that.
It's been two weeks since it spread to my elbow. My entire right arm is green now, and the carpet is growing thicker. There's new cities of industrious green sprouting under my toenails, in my ear canal, and at my hairline. It's changing from regular mold to a furry moss. My couch is getting it, too. This stuff will consume this whole room eventually. I'm staying.
It's been three days since I masturbated. I used my right hand. It felt great. So great. My hand was completely numb, and my motor control was poor. It felt like somebody else was jerking me off. Somebody clumsy, with no dexterity and a fuzzy hand. I made a new kind of sex! The moss is soft, but it's alive, too, so the fibrous caresses did more than brush and stimulate. Little fuzzy knobs of moldy moss wriggled into my skin with every stroke, playing each nerve tip like the strings of a harp. It transcended any sex I ever had with my ex-wife. That's for sure. I was stuck in orgasm for three or four minutes. No way am I killing my lovely shell now. My decision is set. I love nature.
It's difficult to move. That's okay, I never liked moving anyways. Soon, I'll be completely still. In joy. My whole body is coated. Different colors now, too. I must look like the most intricate topiary ever sculpted. I can't shut my eyes anymore. The recurring growth on the surface of my left eyeball keeps slipping off when my tear duct squeezes out a few drops. It's making my cheek lumpy. My mouth tastes like old milk and batteries. I can't reach for the gin bottle anymore. I don't really mind. I'm not that thirsty right now. I have a tummyache.
ggggglllll rrrrrrrrssskkkkkkkkzzzzzxx........ 12:35 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
RECENTCreeping Momentum Part One
Bad Writing Awards
Amyl Nitrate Science
The Secret Diablo River
Center In Grey
Ultraviolet Incubator Part Three
Dead Letter Shrapnel - Karol