I Need Phychological Counciling!
There’s a very strange lady who lives on my floor. She lives next to both the elevators and the trash room. She’s of middling height, white, probably in her mid-40’s, and while I wouldn’t call her fat, I’d say she is less "petite" than she is "extremely sturdy." 9 times out of 10 when I see her, she is wearing a black spandex full-body unitard, which makes her look like an enormous jet-black turkey. Sometimes there’s a belt. Sometimes, she’s carrying a huge, messy newspaper.
I call her strange not because of one particular thing she does or says — because she says and does practically nothing at all — but rather, because of a certain sketchy vibe she sends out. She always has a highly suspicious look on her face, as though she feels like she’s being followed. No, not followed, chased. Even though most of her face is usually frozen into a neutral, expressionless mask, her eyes thrash wildly around in their sockets, perceiving some kind of invisible, impending danger.
And she darts. Fucking darts everywhere. Darts into the trash room, then darts back into her apartment. Darts onto the elevator, then seems to frantically mash her hand against the Close Door button until she’s safely entombed in the moving elevator. I’ve seen her dart down the street, harried, tormented, and purposeful.
I used to like this lady. I’m a big fan of the benignly crazy, they’re my kind of people; so it used to feel like a nice touch to have someone living on my floor who seemed to be pleasantly nuts, instead of all boring and normal. But she fucking crossed the line today, and now it’s over. It’s soooo fucking over.
As I was sauntering towards the elevator this morning, the door to her apartment flew open. The noise startled me, so I was looking directly at her open doorway when she emerged from the depths of her refuge (note that because her apartment sits at the end of the hall, at a 90 degree angle to the elevators, you are basically looking right at her apartment when you’re walking down the hallway), clad only in a half-open robe made of some kind of shiny green silk. She quickly reached down, grabbed her newspaper, stood up, looked me right in the eyes with her tense yet expressionless gaze, and darted back into her apartment.
The entire transaction must have only taken a total of two seconds, but the damage I sustained in that one moment will likely take a lifetime to repair. I suppose I should start by saying that I am partly to blame for what happened; if I were able to control my fucking attention deficit disorder, and not react to every single sound I hear or bit of movement that I see, I would have been able to avert my eyes the second i heard the door open. But it was fucking loud, man, and fast — how the hell do you avoid looking at a bright green flash in your periphery? Isn’t that some kind of Darwinian self-preservation mechanism?
Anyway, Darwin can suckit, and so can you. I’m not gonna describe what I saw while I was standing there frozen with terror, because just thinking about the parts of that woman not covered by green silk-esque material makes my hands tremor too much to type. At first, I thought my face would melt off, as though she’d opened the Lost Ark in the hallway outside the elevator; but then I realized the effects were more subtle, and much, much more sinister. It was as if the robe concealed some kind of radioactive substance, like say, a form of Kryptonite — but one whose sole effect when revealed from within its protective shielding is to irradiate, wither, and destroy the human sex drive.
Seriously, it’s all over for me. I’ll never love again. I have no idea what the antidote could be, but we need to move fast; I can feel my burls disintegrating in their burl-housing as we speak. I know some of you probably feel this is a good thing for the gene pool, to which I reply: Fix my balls, please, for the love of God, and erase the awful memory of this morning from my precious, precious brains.