Friday, September 23, 2011

Sick Dream

Warning: This is a shit post

I wonder if after I write this post whether I will change my mind and delete it like I did to the previous one

You wanna know what's freaky I had that previous post up on my blog for all of five minutes and in that five-minute window Hui Jan somehow manages to read it five minutes oh come on

But that freaky is nothing compared to what you're about to read next

I just remembered what I dreamed about last night and I storied it to Cha it was disgusting I am disgusted with my own subconscious know like seriously I feel like horrific right now

Here goes

So I dreamed I was in this warzone place. Like in Iraq or something. It was deserty. Sandstormy. Bomby. I was like part of a unit or something. We were moving through like one sandy tunnel to another in sleeping bags. Yeah in case you didn't get that I was in a warzone.

And that's where I met this demon cat

It looked just like a normal cat. About the same colour as Crookshanks, but it didn't look like a walking carpet bag like Crookshanks does. It was one of the sleek, handsome, pointy-eared cats. Yeah, I said this already, but it looked just like a normal cat.

But it could talk. And boy was it sadistic. It was evil. This cat was evil. It was a demon cat. Purely villainous. And it just kept talking to me. It followed our unit for days. It wanted to kill me more than anything else in the world. Me and my unit. And because it was a demon, it couldn't die. There was no way I was getting rid of it and I would be foolish to try.

But after days of fear and desperation in the warzone, unable to sleep because of the talking cat watching me and talking about my impending doom, I finally reached my breaking point. I seized the cat from under the armpits (you know the way you carry cats) And I took a  knife - a standard Swiss Army Knife - and I stabbed it where I thought its heart would be. But the cat just laughed at me and told me I couldn't get rid of it that easily. And that the minute I let the cat go I would be dead. And so I kept stabbing its white-furred undercarriage trying to find its heart, which was still beating, but to no avail. And the cat kept laughing at me and I knew I had to kill it so I started sawing off its limbs. With a Swiss Army Knife. I started sawing, one by one, paw by paw, and it was such a painfully slow process. I knew everything in detail. Like when you cut through the thin layer of fur and skin and then flesh and then you hit the bone and you have to start sawing and I saw bone marrow and muscle and sinew and ligament and warm blood gushing over my hands and the whole time the cat was still talking so I kept sawing and hacking and sawing until I finally sawed off its head and all I was left with were cat body parts.

And then I left the cat's remains behind.

In a pile.

There was fur and blood all over my hands.

But at least the cat stopped talking.

I am a murderer.

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