How about your interpretation of the hands that try to touch me while I have sleep paralysis...
I opened the front door and hesitated walking in because it was so dark in the house. I stepped in and slowly walked up the carpeted steps up to the living room. I could hear my feet squishing the carpet like it was soaking wet, and the banister itself was slippery. I made it to the top of the stairs and looked for a lightswitch. I heard a loud scream from the back bedrooms. I walked slowly towards where I thought was the hallway to the back of the house and stopped because I thought I could hear rasping breathing. Suddenly the hallway light flicked on for a split second then off and then back on and then back off. It was a slow motion strobe light, and each time I could see the floor, the walls and the ceiling was covered in blood. At the end of the hall was the fattest clown I have ever seen in my life. In his right hand was a long knife and in his left was my little sister's head. She was still screaming.
I was trapped in a town full of giant zombie rabbits. The only way I was able to get out was putting on an Easter Bunny suit...
there is this terrible clown doll. Instead of arms and legs, it has very long stick-like appendages where all four reach the floor making the creature about 6-feet-tall. On the end of each limb is a squeaky shopping-cart wheel [kind of like the Wheelers in Return to Oz]. It wheels around and terrifies people...
Just a black nighttime backyard, simple tree, some shrubs in the distance, and a single pane of light cast across the grass. Just outside the square of light, a vague man-shape stands smoking a cigarette and looking up with softly glowing white eyes...
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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