I’ve written a year ago in Smoketh’s prune state that even inanimate objects were sensing her poverty. At her lowest–when she would describe herself as a lowly chesa, something lower than a prune–even the alarms in National Bookstore in Rob were privy. Them alarms just blared out wildly as soon as Smoketh passed them by, because indeed she looked poor enough to pilfer a pen.
This time all 52 known universes are sensing my poverty. To complete the poverty experience the universes are sending rats, cockroaches, and all sorts of weird insects to attack my room. Smart and agile ones at that. Fly traps would just be turned over after a couple of nights, with the cheese bait (classic pyramid-shaped cheese with butas butas) taken effortlessly. I woke up one afternoon sweaty and hungry, and thought I would eat my left over Jack and Jill potato chips carefully stashed inside my zippered lunch box. I unzipped the lunch box, and inside is the fucking rat, looking up at me, trying to engage me in a staring contest. No staring contest transpired, because I quickly threw the bleeping lunchbox against the wall and screamed the shrillest, most embarrassing, girliest scream of all time. Of course rat just jumped out of the flying lunchbox, did a cartwheel mid-air, landed with grace on the floor, and traipsed away with glee.
Only two things could make me scream the shrillest, most embarrassing, most scrotally-incompatible scream of all time– a flying cockroach and a rat in a lunchbox. They are the only ones I would admit to.