Somethings

Somethings are just unpredictable. You can stick a fork in a cooking piece of meat a hundred times over and when you've finally convinced yourself that it's the best piece of meat you've ever roasted, you serve it on a plate with Worcestershire sauce and sit yourself down comfortably on your couch in front of the television and then lo and behold! The first tentative prod of your knife and out gushes a conniving spurt of blood that has no business being there. So now I'm left staring at what might just be an uncooked, mangled, largish breast-piece with melted cheese, flecked with dried blood and my appetite, being the bloody whimsical, whiny bitch that it is, teeters on the brink of oblivion. Then I think "Mmm...Rare." and dig in. Well, it's probably the best 'rare' piece of meat you've ever cooked anyway.

Somethings are just strange. Do you not think the Joker has the verses of 'Everyday you play' memorised, that he chants to himself before carving a pleasant smiley on the unsuspecting victim, blissful perfection guiding every simulacrum of ecstasy he etches on an otherwise terrified face? 'I want to do with you what Spring does with the Cherry trees'. And sure enough, the subject smiles. He smiles because he ought to. Insanity might be rational sometimes. And that is strange. It's strange that it's strange. It's strange that people avoid the rugged freak in tattered clothes who wanders the street with fists clenched and teeth bared. Is it not foolish to assume that he'll smash the living daylights out of anyone who might accidentally bump into him on a crowded pavement? Anger must be directed. Once, at least once, I must walk up to such a person after having spotted him amidst the afternoon torrent of scurrying people, and hug him. After all, a black eye is not the worst thing I might invite upon myself. It would probably go well with the dark circles.

Somethings are just unimaginable. Like a masochist and a sadist bolted in a thick walled cell and what they might do to each other. Picture the masochist, roped to a chair, eyes gleaming and mouth salivating at the prospect of what's about to come, screaming at the sadist to 'Hit me!' while the sadist smiles wanly in soft contemplation of his devices of torture, instincts assailed by curiosity, tapping the 10 pound cricket bat in his hand while he whispers in his drawling, menacing tone. "No."

Somethings are just impossible to reply to. Like when someone out of a midday crowd of sleepy pedestrians hollers "YOU!" and you turn around, with the confused lot of other people, and are quietly amused to find it's 'you' that's being hollered at. And then some run-of-the-mill, gap-toothed beggar boy jumps out of nowhere and ties you down with a friendly embrace. It's like you narrate the best joke you've ever heard, enunciate the plot, emphasize the twist and pause expectantly for applause and then some retard listening in breaks the building silence with a 'lol'. It's formidable.

Somethings are just hard to resist. Like defacing a perfect picture of sunset you've painted by smattering little black drops over the canvas. Or screaming at a teacher just to catch him unaware. Or saying something so outrageous, that's almost impossible to believe, but with a semblance of logic that makes people gape and doubt whether you should be allowed to run free in the world. Or singing till your eyes bug out. Or burning wax till it melts. Or spoiling every joke told with an unruffled 'lol'.Or chanting 'I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses' everytime you put out a cigarette on an unsuspecting black bug crawling unaware over your canvas.

But then, as always, there's your capricious appetite waiting on you to feed.