How Random Babbling Becomes Corporate Policy (t3knomanser) wrote,
How Random Babbling Becomes Corporate Policy

Cant Sleep, Clowns Will Eat Me

This is what happens when you write and are really tired. I should be asleep. I should have been asleep a long time ago. What? Three days? four days now? No shit man... what... calendar says thirteen. Caffeine has long since given way to meth. Crank. Can't sleep, clowns will eat me. It's something I saw on a button once.

Fucking clowns.

It's a funny joke, right? Right? And then the dreams started. Fucking clowns. I was at a circus. Clowns were performing, making silly, laugh, ha ha, right? Except these were French Clowns. For those of you that have never suffered through five hours of Cirque De Soleil know that French Clowns aren't funny. Well, maybe they are, in a Jerry Lewis is funny kind of way. Which he isn't, so they're not.

So yeah, they pull out this big wheel, and put it in the center ring. It's got one of those hypnotising spirals painted on it. Off to one side there's naked chicks dangling in red curtains doing crazy shit with their thighs that's making me wish I were a red curtain. To another, there's these gymnasts that look like they're breaking laws in three states, not counting the laws of physics. But smack dab in front of me were the fucking French Clowns.

So they want a volunteer, and my sophmore English professor is standing there, smelling of weed, and says, "Do it man. Do it."

And two of the clowns come up and grab me by the wrists. Drag me down to the wheel thing, and strap me to it. I think I managed some witty comment about bondage and inviting those chicks doing the curtain thing. That part of the dream is really fuzzy.

Suddenly, the wheel flips over and becomes a table. The clowns are all sitting around it, napkins in their collars, forks and knives in their hands, slamming them on the table and chanting in some strange language. Stranger than French.

All of the sudden this isn't very funny- well, that is to say it's a fuckload less funny than it was before, which wasn't a hell of a lot anyway. And then this one fucking clown opens his mouth, and instead of teeth, he has long, sharp needles. I can see the light shining off of the metal. I scream like a little girl, and his teeth dive into my left hand. I don't feel much, but I _hear_ the bones tearing and the flesh breaking. Wait, strike that. Reverse it. Shit, when did I last sleep?

Anyway, I look down, and half my hand is missing- the fingers are gone. The fucking clown is wiping blood off of his chin, as more spurts from my hand onto his polka-dot clown suit. I hear it splatter against the vinyl of his clown shoes with hollow thumps, as each drop strikes. It blends right in with the shoes.

At that point, I wake up, screaming, sweating, and with this massive hard on. I swear to god that was from the chicks in the curtains dangling from the ceiling doing leg twists and... fuck, watching a woman dangle thirty feet in the air by gripping a curtain between her thighs, and doing fucking dance moves...

That aside, scary, creepy dream right. Nightmare central. Boogie-fucking-man-fucking-a. I wipe my forehead, and instead of feeling it under my fingers, there's a dull slap as meat hits meat. My fingers are hanging limp. I can't feel them. Can't move them. Now I fucking panic, I'm out of the bed, clock flapping around, and screaming. The downstairs neighbors scream back, telling me to shut the fuck up, and I yell back that the clowns fucking ate my hand. They don't reply.

I don't go to sleep again that night. I just sit, staring at my hand. I poke it with needles, and cut it with knives. Blood doesn't even come out. It's fucking dead.

The next night, I don't sleep. I caffeine it. Third day, the same thing. My hand doesn't come back. I made a doctor's appointment, but he said he couldn't see me for a few days. I decided I needed sleep, so I took my sister's advice for dreamless sleep- pills.

The pills kick in a few minutes after I swallowed them, and then I was out like a light. And as soon as my eyes closed, I was back on that fucking table. My English professor was there, going, "It's a joke that you'd really have to be French to understand." Then the clowns attacked. This time I was naked, and one of them put a hot-dog bun around my cock, and well...

I woke up, shaking, and dead between the legs. I try everything. I mean everything. Nothing. I got no response from any of the lotions, lubes, porns. The funny part of my head kept muttering "That solves the painful urination problem, right?"

That's when I started the caffeine binge. Which turned into the crank binge. I've pissed my pants tweleve times because I couldn't feel it. I'm typing this fucking thing one handed while I swear to god that I can fly. The funny part of my head keeps saying that it's not a sleep-deprivation created hallucination. I ain't laughing.

"Can't Sleep. Clowns Will Eat Me." Keeps flashing in my head. Yesterday, I ran out of food, and managed to get my ass up and out the door to buy more. The kid checking me out had that button on his apron. The apron was the same color as the clown shoes.

It's funny, in a Jerry Lewis kind of way.

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