THE BFF CPR
February 9th, 2010 § 0
Whilst being held hostage by a set of Pratesi 300 thread count sheets, Ms. M. was running on little more then grievous vapor. Her internal sprinkler gauge hitting that little red line of reserve on her soul. She had overdosed on countless hours/days of heart stomping talk show television coupled with obsessive internet googling. Once hosting an above average figure of 55% bodily fluids, she now suffered dangerously low levels of the H20 compound. Disguising itself as harmless midday entertainment she had unknowingly merged onto the autobahn of dual sourced sensationalized media. Swollen eyed from her own weep relief telethon, Ms. M. was slain by a never ending telecast of the oppressed and victimized. She was spent. Her tank was empty. This unrelenting exposure had carried off all her tears. As she lay just a little too still on her side, I folded myself humbly to the small of her back. Just as my weighted lids conceded to an override of awareness, the bedroom door burst open. Her BFF having ownership of a duplicate key had let herself in. On what I can only describe as a love struck soapbox high, she set about the room reciting something Shakespearean in texture. Possibly attributed to Romeo and Juliet but I’m unsure. Suspended just short of the crescendo, she acknowledged our pathetic state. Numbed and with a guarded step, the BFF approached the bed.
©Philo 09
