It's always there. It doesn't always seem like it, but it always is. I can tell, because I can check. Just close my eyes, real tight, and move my eyes back and forth real fast. It's fast, but I'm faster. I can catch it. Or maybe it wants to be caught. Maybe it wants me to see it, always on the bare edge of my vision. Taunting me. Teasing me. Waving those ghastly, trailing appendages at the dark, fleeting corners of my peripherals. Only for a second, before it disappears completely. An orb, full of flailing lines. Whites, greys, blacks. Writhing around a great black oval. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it isn't.
I thought I caught it one time. Caught it real good. It must have been dozing. Letting its guard down. I closed my eyes and looked right, and I could see its tentacles swimming. A whole group of them. Lazily, drifting by. Coasting. Floating. I tried focusing on them. Shift my gaze left, right, up, down. It always one step ahead. Just beyond my stare. Bait to my feeble chase.
I scrambled after it. I almost lost it, a few times. Then it stopped moving. It stayed still. I caught it. It was mine. I was its. Its eye.
Its eye. Tendrils, thousands of them. Millions of them. Crawling, ingraining, rooting, seeking. Finding. Feeling. Having.
A dark orb, blackest black. I fell in. Fell, every onyx arm grasping at me. Some, mere inches. Others, miles long. Impossibly long. Disappearing and reappearing at the very corners of my view. It embraced me. It pulled at me. Twisting. Constricting. Suffocating.
I don't chase it anymore.
It's always there. A single arm, lazily floating in front of me. They always come now; eyes open, eyes shut. Floating in front of my gaze.
Begging for attention. Begging to be chased. Begging for me to come back one more time, to see it, to feel it, to find its infinite embrace.
I don't chase it anymore.
Angry and hopeless Trump voters take heart: there is a man who is out for justice for America.
People can't stop talking about this Donald Trump character. He's said a lot of crude and hateful things over the years, and demonstrated a tremendous lack of judgment, discipline and decency. If you ask me, he's not fit to be our president. In fact, he's not even fit to be mayor of Buffoontown.
Nightmares Fear Factory is BACK, baby!
The Comedy Goldmine examines the funniest and most creative threads from the Something Awful Forums. Although the Comedy Goldmine has changed authors many times over the years, its focus on the Something Awful Forums is still the same. Includes hilarious Photoshops, amusing work stories, parodies, and other types of oddball humor.