Miniscule Things

Sleep Deprivation is a beast that will consume us all.

Alas, this morning I awoke, thinking all is normal, well as normal as it gets.

I rolled out of my cardboard shoebox bed, and found that I had spent the night in some seedy part of South London. As I was trudging my way back home, my mobile banana phone starts to jingle. Quickly I realize that it was my wife. 

“Where in the bloody parts of Aunt Jocelyn’s petty coat have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for the better part of a week,” she exclaims.

“Sorry dear, must have pulled a Rip Van Winkle on you,” I sarcastically replied.

“HOME! NOW!” She once again exclaims.

“Yes, madam.”

So on my way I go, stepping over hobos who rolled out of a quantum portal to Neverwhere, stealing from street vendors when I get hungry (granted the gyros at the local Greek vendor was mildly gamey), singing to my own tune. Not five minutes after I talked to my wife, I arrive home. 

Now searching for my keys, I notice that my front door is ridiculously small and funny shaped. As normal, I just regarded it as I do everything else after a night of binging on mango iced teas. After finding my fluorescent green house key, I enter, and find my self in a conundrum.

Surely I haven’t gone daffy or something. My house is quite frigid and colored dark purple, green, and apricot. I hear singing coming from what appeared to be somewhat a kitchen. By instinct, I progressed towards the singing, and found myself picking myself off of the floor.

“Look at you. Covered in filth, smell like a shoebox, looking like some Eddie Izzard-hobo hybrid. What in the world could have you been doing? Oh I bet you were with that floozy Martha again. Oh yes, with her big green stem, and shiny red body.”

“Babe, I can explain. Three words: Mango iced tea.”

“Don’t you give me that crap. I know you were with that Martha. And I thought you loved me.”

This is when I realized that I was married to a papaya. An emotional, self-conscious papaya. Ugly on top of it all.