After weeks of purely online communication via Scrabulous, we're face to face again. Not only am I surprised to see you are not pale and atrophied, like an invalid shut-in, but that you are not grizzly-faced, tobacco-stained, and wearing shabby pajamas like one. Instantly I feel like I have forgotten to wear shoes and am standing here in the bar, après-comedy show, in fluffy socks with toothpaste around my mouth.
I am amazed I can make conversation with you at all. I expected all I would be able to do is communicate one word at a time, in three-minute increments.
fresh-baked at 10:21 PMoh. my. god.
Offered by: jamied on April 8, 2008 8:30 PMOh thank the gods. I thought I was the only one....
Offered by: Jeffrey on April 8, 2008 1:44 PMWatches as the emaciated former-goddess-turned-internet-word-game-addict picks at the numerous scrabs covering her hands and arms. Her sunken eyes glare tight-lidded, forced open by the pull-pull-pulling of her stretched facial epidermis.
She picks a scrab off of her arm and watches as the red ooze starts to percolate. "A," she says. "Anamorphic. 20 points." She slides a cracked, dillapidated fingernail under another and slowly peels it back from her skin. "B," she winces. "Bacillus. 14 points."
She'll continue this bizarre ritual for hours unending, systematically removing each and every one of her over 400 scrabs, then pausing so that they can heal so she can begin the process anew.
Scrawled in her own blood on the wall of her apartment are hashmarks, each one representing one point, that she has scrawled there with the sharpened fingernail of her right index finger. She keeps the tally only inside her own head. "42-thousand, six-hundred and twelve," she mutters as she scrapes up the latest marker. "42-thousand, six-hundred and thirteen."
She can't remember the days when she used to write creative, flowery and often biting prose on her world-famous blog. She can only remember the faint blue glow of her computer monitor, speaking to her in the darkness of her littered apartment. The monitor has long since died, its power source having been turned off for lack of payment. But she doesn't care. The game is in her mind now.
"C," she cackles. "Cacophony. 19 points."
Another scrab falls to the floor.
Offered by: Ds on April 8, 2008 11:16 AM
