It was a foggy night on the marble windowsill of master’s office, and lightning must have ignited the sky at the precise moment the KGB mini-detectives pulled onto the scene to witness unspeakable horrors within the bookshelf apartment complex. “This has been a complete shitstorm since master’s maid left” one detective said to the other, but obviously in Russian, since they’re KGB.
“The bookshelf is not safe anymore, leave it to the lawless and the scum,” the senior detective replied.
“Scented candles… with nowhere else to go. Why is that our fucking problem, huh?”
“I said leave it. And she isn’t master’s maid, you dimwitted asshole. She’s the reason we’re not in storage with the ornaments and the fleshlights. Pull us out of here. I’m going to be sick.”
Lightning crackled across the sky once again, and the figurines made their 43 centimeter journey to the other side of the sill, just under the false sun of Ikea’s desk lamp. They needed the light. Now, more than ever.
Thank you, thank you. I call that one “True Toy Soldier Detective Story”. 100% original. For real though I got that little car in Berlin, where you can still see some old school DDR era cars bopping around. Obviously the wall and the museums put a real location and place to the stories in the textbooks and on wikipedia. Definitely worth going.
I guess I’ll start the real blog now, but if we’re being honest, I wanted to put this part off a bit, because I didn’t feel comfortable with opening it right away by saying I almost pissed my pants for the first time since I was 9. And this isn’t hyperbole. I entered a Teams call that was scheduled to be an hour long. At 30 minutes, I would’ve put the urgency at a 7 already. That is, until 90 minutes later I realized I didn’t even know what a real 7 was. Or an 8. Or a 9. My entire threshold for pain and discomfort, the deepest reaches and depths of its scaling, was thrown out the window. I thought I might piss my pants and pass out, in either order. And the greatest torture was that when I finally found relief, it wasn’t really relief at all. You know the story of the guy who somehow found himself hanging onto the wing of an airplane for his life, all the way until it landed? And when paramedics finally got to him, they had to pry his hands off the wing with a crowbar? My urine is the plane. My bladder is that man. Even after release it felt like I was still holding on, or had never released, or perhaps was still full. Amazing we are creatures with brains to ponder the dumb absurdity of our simian bodies. How can I go on thinking I’m an agent of my own will in this world after getting clowned on by own bladder like that?
Anyway later on I made some chicken parm, which was solid. Going to try to get out and about tomorrow. Might have another Frankfurt excursion perhaps. Lord knows I can drink that apple wine any day of the week.
See you tomorrow.
Nick
Nick Denardi 