Thursday, April 14, 2005

Weird phobias No. 423

Ceiling Fans. That's my destiny.

It must be something to do with my nascent distrust of engineering standards, but everytime I'm under a ceiling fan, I'm thinking about how thoroughly it was attached to the ceiling, whether or not the installer was having an off day / doing drugs / suffering through a painful breakup / just plain nasty. It also strikes me that if you're in a hotel or apartment complex, the lowest bidder probably got the ceiling fan contract. I do understand that it would be detrimental to their future sales to have a customer beheaded by the whirling dervish of death - but maybe they figure these things in like a car company deciding to recall a model only after .x percent of fatal crashes.

I don't want to persuade anyone to join my nasty little phobia support group, and in the interests of full disclosure, just let me state that I have recently installed ceiling fans in my house.

Monday, April 11, 2005

There's a wall out there somewhere...

I have a recurring vision of myself hitting a brick wall at such high velocity that my body is pulverized, like a great big grasshopper smashed onto the windshield of a pickup truck. I don’t know why this vision occurs to me, nor can I control it. It just happens, suddenly and frequently. I don’t know if this is a vision of how I will die, or a visual manifestation of feeling out of control. But it’s interesting to me that I’m not falling in this vision. I’m flying. And then splat. The vision ends with a sound, rather than an image: a barely audible breath – exhaled – like a soft sigh of relief.

I don’t want to know death. I’m content in my ignorance of it. When my time comes, I will have to be pushed out of this womb of Earth amid curses and screams. It will be painful and it will be messy. I will not be delivered peacefully into the arms of oblivion. I will be gasping for my first breath of eternity and kicking any and all who are there to receive me.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Assassinate me

I want to be assassinated. A single bullet from a lone gunman (not necessarily on a grassy knoll) entering my skull and painting the surroundings an interesting colour called hint of brains.

My reasoning: Being assassinated would assume that someone thought me and my rather subversive thoughts important enough to do something about. I would have to be famous - this wouldn't be a random act of violence, you understand. Rather, it would be the result of careful panning, lots of money, secretive meetings between powerful people behind closed doors,, expensive, state-of-the-art ordnance, false passports, payoffs, the mob, whatever.