Don’t You Wanna Fantod

“Go to the Merriam-Webster Word of the Day Web site (www.merriam-webster.com/word-of-the-day), and write a story based on that word.”

March 13, 2014

Fantod (noun)
1 a: a state of irritability and tension
b: fidgets
2 an emotional outburst: fit

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Beer cans whistled in the corner as the breeze caught their tops just right, and a boring dust caught the glimmer of light that fought its way through a cracked door. Superfluous details caught the attention of a puffy eye, above a damaged cheek. An all seeing eye as it were, or as one perceives through rapid eye movement. Caught between a reverie and my own verisimilitude, I purged the innocuous sounds, smells and visions of the nightmare that came before. The bed spread was perfectly tucked and cornered, and yet I was uncomfortable looking at it. The television flickered and voices blared out, one in particular, “You’re a wanker number nine!” The sound was that which makes one jump out of a window, not because it wasn’t brilliant, but rather because I never understood what number nine had done that warranted his essence to be that of a wanker. I also don’t follow or understand soccer, oh I’m sorry, futbol. I turned off the telly and opened a window, it was too early to argue with the universe.

Tapping a steady beat on the ledge of my window, I found solace in the sound of my nails hitting the wood. But of course all good things are short lived and I’ll be damned if I didn’t break a flipping nail. I made my way to the living room, I couldn’t even bring myself to make the long journey to the shower, seriously fuck it. The television was still on in the living room, probably from the night before. Take out boxes, funny smells, and boy did my ash trays runneth over, the sight of the kitchen turned my empty stomach. Was that a mint julep on the counter? “Mystery of flight 370 continues next with Wolf Blitzer.” Where was the bloody remote control? I had surely had enough of the seemingly never-ending loop of non information that CNN insisted on shoving down my dry, scratchy throat. Netflix it would be. “Previously on LOST” justified the volume change. What was this? Could it be Kate tagged along on some daring and dangerous mission and is now officially kidnapped? Vomit island, and Netflix surfing would resume. Start, stop, start, stop, I couldn’t get a grip on anything. My skin crawled with mythical bugs that too had been drunk on whiskey and love, itching their way around my body, which was stained with contrition. Perhaps that road much travelled to the shower was in order after all.

“The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside, couldn’t keep it in, heaven knows I tried!” You better believe I sing Adele Dazeem in the shower. “Don’t let them in, don’t let them see, be the good girl you always have to be, conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know!” I cry Adele Dazeem too. Through the steam and hair, only a glimpse of the bottle that would be used as shampoo was visible. Wet hair weighs a ton and can be quite difficult to get shaving gel out of. Time is not friend to the pipes, as anyone who has spent more than fifteen minutes in a shower will tell you. The goosebumps rose from my arms and legs as the now frozen water was beating on the top of my head. Taking the razor and using the shaving gel as recommended might have been the easier route. There were not enough towels in that bathroom to warm me up, poetic when I realized there was not enough water in the world to wash the stank of life off either. I had no choice but to scream at the world, well in my head anyways. Hung over, hypothermic, nauseous, accessorized by only a broken nail, and unmotivated to clean the mess that was my house, I swore I’d never have the in-laws over again.

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