Fatalism and Thoughts of Amputation

Long lost was the cap to the toothpaste, down the spiral of the drain and lodged against the honed steel fang of the garbage disposal. Demise awaits, nibbling the tips-o-me-fingers as I crammed the straining stubbies into its orifice, the rubber apron lips a minute obstacle to an impending view of destruction. Contemplating suicide the hard way one must if it is to be at the hands of a disposal; or at the very least a lot of determination. Its hardly a run and jump in proposal, more of a agonizing chipping away at one’s limb and because of the absurdness of it all why am I cringing whilst my fingers are interned below? I am in my apartment all alone, the switch to power up the carnage is a foot away, yet here I am expecting the machine to turn on by itself and decapitate my happy digits from me arm. I can only guess that it is a trust issue, but just where, who and what this distrust is aimed at I really do not know.

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