01
Aug
09

things ain’t been the same since that meteor landed in my backyard and i dry-humped it

He wakes up some mornings half-convinced that he’s cured. He rubs his eyes and stares at the alarm clock, trying to persuade himself that the digital numbers look a little fuzzier, signifying mercifully that he’s gone back to his old bespectacled self again: no more worrying, except about normal stuff. No more obsessing over the lunar schedule. So long to handcuffing himself to the radiator every few weeks. Maybe he can even rebuild his social life, secure in the knowledge that no one will discover his secret, because he finally won’t have one.

But, inevitably, those last few vestiges of his dreams -of freedom- thin out and disappear like  a vapor because he knows there’s no cure. And somehow, he wouldn’t want there to be. He’s aware (understatement of the year) that he’s capable of some seriously terrible things, but weirdly, that knowledge, plus a greatly improved physique, have given him the self-confidence that somehow escaped him in adolescence despite a list of academic achievements that inexplicably didn’t equate to high social standing. Since the Change, though, he thinks he could probably be a pretty prolific dater if he wasn’t so afraid of blacking out one night and tearing some nice girl’s throat out. 

Sure, his condition sometimes alleviates stress (it did feel good to turn his boss’s lexus into a convertible), but it generates much more, and the only way he can exercise what little control he has over it is by a) wearing the amulet, and b) staying in a routine; keeping an even keel. So it’s off to get ready for the day. He’s going to have to wear long sleeves today because the marks where the cable ties cut into his wrists still haven’t healed yet. That, and the shower’s clogged again. Great.

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