Red 8's

This is an old piece that I have decided to add simply so I can learn to blog.

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Its a warm night. I am getting carpet burn. I am not drunk enough.

I am home and we're playing Uno. That's how bad it is. I'm 36 years old, it's a sexy warm night and all I can think of to do with my life is to play card games and my numbers suck. My ankle scrapes along the acrylic rug. Nothing will work anywhere. The colours are like a ghastley Mondrain replica. Blocks of colour for the fat and the dull.

I should be out on a moutain top, scaling ravines and crossing moutains or whatever way around that goes, I can't even remember. I should be Marie Curie or Laren Bacall-esqe. I should be out being fabulous and meeting people. I don't think I've spoken to anyone except my boyfriend since Friday at work in the afternoon. On Friday I spoke to the security guard at work. He was bored.

I watch my boyfriend scratch his balls and raise his eyebrow. His love life with his hand has got to be better than ours. There is clearly a conversation between his eyebrow and his cock. Is this a prearranged meeting with his hand as the wheelman?. Clearly he has all the cards. Clearly they are better than mine AND I wouldnt be so annoyed if I hadn't been the dealer.

Fucking card games to stave off insanity. If he wasn't around, I'd be sailing the Atlantic, half frozen and totaly alive, I would be slipping between the sheets and thighs of something delicious, I'd be doing anything but playing Uno I am sure of it - I don't know what really but not this.

He is beating me and scratching at the same time. The sound of his pubes is dry and scratchy but it contiues with metronomic timing.

I am waiting for the black card, the wild card. I want a message, I am looking for a reason to be the killing machine, the golum. I start thinking this too much. I want to be the meat puppet. I want to be the murdress in slinky satin. I sit and I think about the ways to dispose of the body and Jamie Oliver comes to mind.

I can hear moths tapping on the screen trying to be let in. Stupid moths.

I start chewing over the idea that cooking must of been a fine way to dispose of unwanted guests in the past and make a fine living in times of poverty. I start to think that it would of been a feasible solution to the overcrowding and sanitation issues in London and India and places like that. Who can tell what the hell is in a curry anyhow?

The cards in my hand are turning all red. I want for this omen. I taste it like blood in my mouth. He still has a better hand than mine, I can tell by the smugness eminating from his pores. 8 is the number of death and transformation. Red 8 would be the sign, it would be the explanation from some divinity. If I get a Red 8 I will do it. I will tikki masala him.

Again i was the dealer.