To the only ones who read my blog...

The sun was shining through the dusty, bent blinds on an early April morning. The air was thick with hairspray residue and as is the case with every day at 682 N., a bottle of liquid plummer sat in a corner near the couch. And along with the clogged sink, the broken chair, and the bodily fluid-covered pillows sat Angela, rocking back and forth, her pants pulled up to her knees, revealing weeks worth of unshaven hair. Sprawled out on the floor in her sweatpants, Angela asked Katie, who was propped up in a chair made for children, "If you and I were both puppets, would you take a bath with me?" The silence could be cut with a knife as Katie articulated her response to such an...unusual question. After conjuring up an appropiate answer, Katie replied, "Yes." Immediately Angela let out a disgusted, "Ewwwwwwwww!" and burst into her contagious, joyous cackle.

Later that morning, Jessica was in the bathroom preparing to attend her religious services just like any faithful of saint would be doing on the day of the Sabbath. Singing hymns to herself and focusing her thoughts on those things most dear and sacred, she was suddently awakened from her meditative worship with joyous cackle, yet again. Sighing a knowing sigh, she swung open the door only to find Angela before her. Correction: Angela's breasts. Well, to be completely fair, they were not actually connected to Angela's body, but were, in fact, the chair. The chair? one might ask in puzzlement, scratching his head. Remember, this is the same house where liquid plummer sat in the corner by the couch. Yes, a chair. Under her white shirt adorned with the Virgin Mary - it is the Sabbath, after all - Angela had stuck a kitchen chair and was walking around as though she had the pointed breasts made so popular in the days of old. Couseling her to take the chair out from under her shirt, I shut the door and began to hum "I am a Child of God," a song that I had decided long ago to hum in times like these - along with the decision to never drink alcohol.

As the morning continued, the light became more vibrant and the dust on the blinds even more visible to the naked eye. One by one Katie and Angela left for their church meetings, both with the intent of pretending as though they were normal to those who would be unsuspecting of such earlier behavior. Did Angela shave her legs? Yes, she did. With the hair down the drain went the rocking back and forth and the puppets bathing together. With the hair down the drain went normality. And ironically, normaility at 682 N. is what most would consider pure insanity. In a twisted world lies rational thinking in the minds of those who understand it most. The liquid plummer is gone. It's been poured down the drain.
Along with the hair.