OK, back to blogging... more on my own personal brand of weirdness.
Is it me? In the middle of an ordinary moment, I can see the brooding horror underneath the surface of even the most common of everyday items. The most innocent looking things. The cutest teddy bear is probably holding a boxcutter behind his back waiting for just the right moment. There's probably a razor blade in that crisp red apple. Yes, the bunny rabbit is a killer; the salmon mousse is poisoned; that doll is a psycho-killer; and yes, clowns and mimes freak me out.
Whenever I go for a snack at the vending machine, you know the one, with the candy all displayed on multiple levels held in place by spiral coils of metal, I think about the candy. Does it like being in there, clinging to the shelves, thinking only of the precipice, knowing that once it is selected, it will be pushed forward slowly, toward the edge, then jettisoned off to plunge to the harsh metal pan below? Can I see the fear in each Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, each roll of Life Savers, every Sun Chip? Is it that terror on Grandma's face on the cookie package? And why do they always put the potato chips on the top row?
Does it hurt them when they fall? Do they die? Do the pretzels bleed? Did they know each other? Do they miss the fallen? Did they have hopes, dreams? Am I the only one who hears the candy screaming as it plummets to its death?