Saturday, September 17, 2005

i am also being stalked by tuberculosis victims

I am being stalked by tuberculosis victims. They keep leaving great hacked up balls of phlegm on my doorstep, like kitten offerings of dead birds. I can hear them loitering behind me in the lift at work, gurgling lung diseases subtly into their hankerchiefs. I keep turning up at meeting with bloody tissues impaled on my high heels.

I am being stalked by lepers too. I have pieces of dead skin in my handbag. Yesterday, when I opened my lunchbox to munch upon my wheat-free rye bread sandwiches, I found a decaying ear tucked in among the lettuce. And a note with rotting finger cells smeared all over it;
This is your last chance! give me a call!

I never call the tb victims or the lepers. I hide my phone when it blares out their messages and I lock my door at night in fear of the scratching on the letterbox when they try to get in. I have disabled my cat flap after finding half a zombie leper corpse stuck in it after coming back from a weekend in the pentlands. He had been trying to squeeze his way in to suckle on my underwear drawer. I never clean things from my front pavement, but rather let nature take its course and allow them to rot away alone into the garden. I have a squeamish disposition when it comes to corpses. The milkman hasn’t come by in three weeks and the letterbox has been worryingly free of junkmail. The only thing to grace my doorstep now is the ubiquitous lidl’s discount of the week leaflet.

Reliability. A great trait of the Germans. And cheap cheese and yoghurt desserts.

Once when I was shopping in Lidl I was making my way down the port aisle when I heard a dull thud. The leper stalker looked at me terrified, one arm dropped clean off and oozing yellow pusses among the discount wines.

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