Being Dead is a Drag
“I went to push the door all the way open but my whole arm went through instead.”
I walked through my first wall today. Didn’t even mean to do it. I was trying to pet my dog Señor Poochie while he slept on the couch. But before I could lay a hand on him, the lil’ motherfucker bolted up from a dead sleep and hoofed it upstairs like he heard there was a harem of dog hookers swimming in a baby pool full of peanut butter up there.
I ran after him but my legs felt weird as hell. It was like they had no weight to them—like how your legs go completely numb after playing with your phone for too long while sitting on the toilet. I only made it to the first step before I completely whiffed the railing and fell face first.
Falling up the stairs, not a great start to my day. And even worse, I had no idea what the hell was going on. Especially after I tried hoisting myself up with the railing and my hand went right through the damn thing. My hand went THROUGH the railing. What. The. Fuck.
I knew something was seriously wrong. I mean, I didn’t even remember how I ended up in the living room to begin with. And Poochie looked a lot bigger than he did the day before.
But it slowly dawned on me, those brownies I ate in the kitchen weren’t made by my mom, were they? No, they were made by my stoner brother while mom was at grandmas for the weekend. I think I ate three of them. And maybe it was all a hallucination. Maybe I was high as a goddamn kite!
I eventually stumbled my way upstairs. I don’t know why I was so intent on petting that stupid dog. It was like there was some driving force from within—like I needed to feel something familiar. I must’ve been stoned out of my mind.
When I hit the top of the stairs ol’ Poochie was staring right at me from the middle of the hallway. He was growling and showing his teeth like a rabid wolf. What the hell happened to my sweet little dog? And why did he look so big? He was little puppy the last time I played with him.
I got closer to the dog and he let out a high-pitched yip. He scurried off through the cracked door of my room. I chased after him, but that’s when something really weird happened; I went to push the door all the way open, but my whole arm went through instead. It freaked me the fuck out!
But I was high, right? So, I did the reasonable thing—I walked through the wooden door like a certified G.
Poochie was hiding under my bed and it was too narrow a space for me to get to him. While I was trying to coerce him out I saw something that made me shudder. Propped up against the side of my bed was a memorial wreath. And in the middle of the wreath was a picture of me with a date underneath: November 24th, 1998-March 18th, 2016. It was from…
My funeral, last year?
How strong were those fucking brownies?
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