The Bloody Doors Off

(This was the post I’d thought was eaten a few nights ago. This does not reflect my current state of mind. I’m choosing to post it because I’ve got nothing to hide.)

Knock. Knock.

Ahem.

Knock. Knock.

Who’s there?

Me.

Me who?

It’s me.

Harold.

Oh. Fuck.

You’re not welcome tonight, Harold.

I’m always welcome. Otherwise you wouldn’t have space for me in your head.

Hope also resides there.

I don’t see her right now, do you?

She’ll be back.

Don’t plagiarize your wife, dude.

I’m not.

That was her story to tell.

I know that. I’m not.

But now you’re thinking it. Can’t resist it, can you? Like if I told you not to think of pink elephants, you’d be doing nothing but that.

Baseball’s on in the background. That’ll distract me from you.

You’re welcome to try. I’m that itch you can’t ignore. Yeah, the one on your ankle right now. Just like that. You’d have to stop typing in order to scratch it. So instead you think of pink elephants.

I can scratch it with my other foot.

Oh, look who just thought logically? I guess those gummies weren’t so strong after all. So. Go ahead.

What?

Go ahead. Scratch the itch. Scratch me. See what happens. Let’s scrape out —

Why’d you stop? Did I make you stop?

Hello?

Knock knock?

Anyone there?