No, I'm kidding, for I have deemed both Johnny and the dead bodies as highly unfuckable things. I just wondered how that sentence would look like. It looks very depressing and stupid.
Actually, I did get fucked, but it was by a piece of glass, and it was no where near romantic. I cut the webbing between my thumb and index finger on my right hand while I was washing a glass earlier today. Its come to the point where I have to wash some dishes once in a while or else I don't eat. Johnny doesn't eat much or drink, and when he does, its prepackaged food from the local 24/7 store.
I just happened to be washing one earlier today and I must have squeezed it too tight or else it was already cracked, but it shattered in my hand and I kept on washing till I noticed the blood in the water and the fact that ouch, my hand really killed. I started panicking when I saw how much it was spewing red stuff and you know what? Nny didn't even get up from the couch. He was used to screaming I guess. It wasn't until I stumbled into the TV room with a dirty dish towel draped over my hand, crying pathetically and dropping to my knees in front of the fuckin TV did he lazily roll his eyes towards me and notice the...pained expression on my face? That I was crying? That I was a bit bleeding? Anyway, he wrestled the towel away from me and while I shrieked in agony he turned my hand over and declared that I was gonna need stitches.
And its not like him to call a hospital or doctor. No, this was a job for Johnny himself. I resisted of course, because I didn't believe that he was...skilled...enough to perform this thing. I didn't want him anywhere near me with a sharp abject and he had me restrained to a chair and ducked-taped down before approaching with a needle and a spool of fishing line.
I have never had stitches in my entire life. I had never cut myself that badly.
"Do not move this hand," Johnny said as he threaded the needle, "because I'm going to miss. Stop crying because it wont kill you. And kick me again and I'll make sure that it will."
Do you know the indignity of having someone stitch you up when you don't want to be? Do you know how much a sewing needle hurts? Do you know how frustrating it is to be so cruelly cared for by someone with such little sympathy? I'm lucky it was my right hand or else I would not be able to write. I don't like using his computer. I don't trust it.
Friday (6:56 am) - Cleaned my wound until it hurt too bad to move. The Johnny helped by pouring rubbing alcohol on it and I screamed for about 60 seconds afterwards. I think he felt sympathy at that point (!) because he shushed me and gave me what may have been the first hug I've received in months and the first ever from him. It was brief and I was in too much pain to notice the significance but now that I've had my hand submerged in a bucket of ice for the last hour, I have a clear enough to head to remember that he had a very very faint perfume on him that was definitely girly. And familiar.
Its on the front of his shirt which leads me to believe that he's either been out hugging other women, or else wears perfume because he's weird.
Saturday (midnight-ish) - Hot Topic, that's what it smelled like. Musty, angry, erotic basement of doom kinda smell. I bet the bottle is red or purple or black with a rose SOMEHWERE on it. I smelled it earlier when he walked by. Its very very faint but noticeable when you look for it. Or...smell for it.
I wonder if I should ask him about it. I wonder if I should ask him about it. Oh I wrote that already.
Sunday (I have no idea what time it is) - Middle afternoon doldrums, ho-hum. Oh my hand is doing not so lovely as it hurts and Johnny cannot bothered to worry about me. He has problem right now. He's more tired and angsty than usual so I suspect Mr. Manic-Depressive is going through another cycle. Which means people will die.