I used to stalk around parties, bars, looking for fun. My face a mask of distraction, concentration. A hint of blood lust. When I’d finally manage to grab fun by the tail it’d yelp, look at me with its big sad eyes. So I would let it go, count to twenty, then begin following its tracks all over again. I wondered why other people at parties weren’t so concerned with tracking down this beautiful little beast. I mean, come on? How could you ignore it? I was obsessed, like a hunter in one of those old stories, obsessed with the game that continues to elude them. Except, I never really had trouble catching it, fun. It never ran off into the woods where I’d have to track it for days, weeks. Sometimes it would just hang out in the corner of the same room I was in. I felt like sometimes it was taunting me. I would often become moody if I knew I was supposed to go to a party. I knew fun would be there, it always was. And while others seemed to ignore it or indulge it with a pat as it brushed past their legs, I couldn’t help but focus my whole attention on the little bastard. Others asked me why I was so distant, I couldn’t explain my obsession, so I started avoiding parties.
But then others would bring fun into rooms where I already was. They didn’t even realize they were doing it. They’d leave the door open a little too long or sometimes they’d beckon it up through an open window. I despised these others in those moments … but I didn’t want to, it was my problem, my obsession. I knew something had to be done. Finally, one day, I decided to end it. It was only logical with all the stalking I did. I went to a party and grabbed fun by its back paws. I excused myself as I dragged the yelping thing out the front door. No one seemed to notice. When I got it home I trapped fun in the bathroom and prepared my knife. I got it on an altar I made out of plastic containers for take-away and hot glue. I cut it open right down the middle. I put fun’s guts in the middle and said a little prayer. I put the remains in leftover containers and threw them in the dumpster.
And ever since it rarely bothers me. The main problem now is that parties are a little more boring. There’s nothing there to distract me when I want it to. But it doesn’t matter. The end of fun has on the whole made my life better. I sacrificed it to the blessing of ‘no bad days.’ All of my blood lust dissipated the night I killed fun, which was good, cause it was gross. There’s just one day a year where the ghost of fun seems to find its way into others eyes. It floats around the whole day in my peripheral vision and all there is to do is wait for that day to end. That day you might have guessed.
End of metaphor.
Should that be ‘end of article?’ Perhaps I will only loosen its strengths with sentences about how I hate halloween as the hipster holiday. If you qualify as an adult, and don’t have children, it seems to me that there’s too much pressure for halloween to be fun. That little bastard always did get my goat.