Salty Rants

"You Suck, Stop Writ-" *slap*

I snap my statistics textbook shut and throw my arms back into a stretch; my joints pop back into place and I let out a sigh of contentment.

Finally, after two hours of reading and re-reading the same page—and doing all one-hundred-and-ten exercises—the information has sunk in, leaving a permanent dent in the pink lump that is my brain. An unexpected yawn escapes my mouth—which opens wide enough to fit a baby seal in it—and I rub my eyes. After recovering from this out-of-body-experience, I  look at the time on my wall-clock: 11:59 PM, it reads. 

Only a minute away from tomorrow, a new day, a new—12:00 PM. I want to cheer like it's the new year, but who am I kidding? I'm neither drunk off my ass nor on holiday—it's just another boring Monday morning, and I don't know what lies ahead. A battle with a Dragon? A search for the Holy Grail? A statistics test? Who knows. 

As I lean in to switch off my desk lamp, a strange sound crawls into my ear. I freeze in place, my hand suspended in the air, and use my heightened troll-senses to concentrate on the source of the disturbance. The more I wait, the clearer the sound becomes—it sounds like a strange combination between a donkey bray and a bawling baby. 

I'm probably hallucinating it, I think to myself as I stand up, but when the sound shows no sign of ceasing anytime soon, I start sweating bullets. Everybody is asleep at this time of night, and unless either one of my parents or—wait. In this fictional scenario, I'm a mature, responsible adult that pays her own bills and lived in her own apartment. Go figure.

This sounds a lot like one of those messed up Horror movies, where the protagonist finds themselves home alone and with some sort of demon-possessed doll in one of the rooms. My instincts as the idiotic movie character yell at me to go and investigate where the sound is coming from, but my brains as a real-life person tell me not to do so. At least not unarmed.

My hand shakes as I open the drawer of my desk, revealing the hilt of a knife. Wait, it's not the knife. I grab hold of the hilt and draw it out in one, clean movement, and it turns out that what I have in my hand isn't just any household knife. It's a motherfucking machete. You know, like the one from Crocodile Dundee.

 I whisper a curse in awe as I twist and turn it, admiring how sharp the onyx blade is. I bet that if the demon threw an orange at me right this instant, I'd be able to slice through that bitch without even having to swipe—my finger makes its way towards the blade, but I draw it back immediately. I'm being stupid. 

Feeling a thousand times safer—and not at all questioning myself how I got in possession of this machete—I get up from my chair and tip-toe towards the exit to my bedroom. I turn the knob and push the door open, revealing a sliver of the corridor. When nothing jumps at me, I tighten my grip on the machete and push it further until I could fit my entire body through the crack. The hallway is dark, eerie, and the sound has yet to stop. In fact, more voices have been added to it. The demon must be watching TV.

So I creep my way towards the living room, ignoring the stitch that has developed in my side, but when I reach the double doors, I stop. Throw the opaque glass, I can tell that the TV is, indeed, on. Although the images playing on the screen are nothing but a blur of colors, I can tell what the intruder is watching: a shitty Romance movie.

"Oh Hayden, I have waited so long for your return..." 

"I know, bitch. I could tell by the one-hundred messages, 20 voicemails, and carrier pigeon you sent me this morning—you have a serious problem."

"But darling, I only did it to show how much I loved—"

"Yeah, okay, I get it Samantha Mary-Sue McNaughty, you love my dick. Even though you're one crazy possessive bitch, your pussy game is strong, so just this once I'll—"