Friday, May 7, 2010

Proof I Think Too Much

*typing blog url onto message board*

(please enter this captcha: margo was)

*typity typity typity*

Meanwhile, in my brain: That's a weird one, Margo Was. What was Margo? Or does it just mean that Margo was but isn't anymore?

Margo was unsure what the ramifications were for setting a public service figure on fire, but it was too late for that now.

Margo was about to finish the race in first place when she was attacked by a rabid armadillo.

Margo was once named Marco, but that was before the operation.

Margo was sick of eating eggplant every night for dinner. But her husband loved eggplant more than anything and insisted on it constantly. Margo hated eggplant and thought it tasted like an old shoe, only without the delicious shoe-lace aftertaste. As her hatred for eggplant grew, so did the same feeling for her husband, smug and with an oddly shaped head, his skin a blotched, purplish color. Like a human eggplant. One night, after staring down at her eggplant Parmesan, Margo snapped and beat her husband upside the head with a souffle pan screaming that if they ever had eggplant again she would fry his stupid eggplant head. The next night, they had hamburgers.

Margo was afraid they were going to find her, she'd been hiding in the basement for days, hearing their boots clattering overhead as they stomped across the wooden boards, searching for any signs of something that didn't belong. Her breathing stifled, heart thudding in her ears in time with the stomping of the boots, Margo waited for them to finish their sweep, counting out seconds in her head to keep from making any sound. But just existing seemed to her to make a riotous noise: her sleeve rustled, a roach skittered across her bare foot as her toes dug into the dirt-strewn floor and her body shook with exhaustion and hunger. How could they not hear her? But then, the slam of a door, the wondrous sound of no sound at all. She was safe for another day. Her body relaxed, tension seeping from her bones as suddenly the floor above her head split apart, splinters raining down on her face as a black-gloved hand reached through the debris and grabbed her, yanking her up from the basement and into oblivion. And Margo was gone.

Wait, what was I doing?


  1. Margo was taken by Deadpool, and eventually became The Black Widow.

    That was lame, okay? I'm lame. And I've accepted it.

    This made me laugh.

  2. sarcasm is a dying art...that has arsenic and daggers...I was queen..and found that the poison I gave in my words...distances 20 its cute...when you get older..its called hate


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