Instruments of Torture

House of Pain

Seems like The Shoe Factory is taking pains to throw my iron maiden into the fire, and I’m not talking about the band. The heat I can stand, but I’m claustrophobic to some degree and I don’t like the tangy taste of rust in my mouth so I am making arrangements to ease me out of this self-imposed torture. One thing I’ve discovered is that, although I thought I was, I am actually not S&M material. My threshold for pain is so low that even a light breeze blowing makes my nerves scream in agony and makes me nauseous.

Why? Why? Why must those people who are the last ones I’d want to see if Armageddon comes are now crowding the crawl space of The Shoe Factory?

Last night, when I hitched a ride to the cave on Neil Ross’ Batmobile, I (sort of) revealed some of the things that have caused my innards to writhe in agony. I’ve already mentioned before that Mr. Alibaba has applied in The Shoe Factory. It turned out that he was accepted and is set to wear an elfin hat (although with a different-colored pompom from the one that I am wearing) by November. And now, Mrs. Alibaba has crossed the drawbridge. And the bestest news, dear readers, is that she will be wearing a hat with the same color of pompom as the one I am donning.

It has been years and years ago. And, in all honesty, I had placed those two in the backburner of my consciousness. And now…. TA-DAH! major Halloween extravaganza. Ghosts from the past coming alive to tango with me.

What Neil Ross didn’t know when he dropped me off my stop last night was that, tickled by the thought that Mr. and Mrs. Alibaba will be my potential lunchmates soon, I laughed like a loon all the way to my boardinghouse’s door. It just keeps getting better and better.

I shall be off this weekend, ordering lumber for my boat. The one made out of paper has sprung a leak.



[photo of torture devices courtesy of wikipedia]


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