Somewhat titled

The thing about smartphones that I really really really hate is the fact that you can't just randomly send "Oh I really thought you were a decent person, but this!? Sending me this!? No... You are just a massive perv. How dare you!" to people.
Such a bummer that you can see what you sent previously. Or the conversation, if you will.
Sad face.

Anyway, I've been working on this really long blog post about serious stuff of seriousness for a long time, and I just can't bring myself to post it. So I decided to give that up and try and write something witty instead. As I am in that kind of mood.

Bring the thunder.

I wrote a short story that I would like to share.
Oh yes. This shit is happening yo.
WITH shitty paint-pictures.


OK here we go. It is called

"Pen-pal" (dramatic music)
The last sentence was carefully thought through before I jotted it down and sealed the envelope. The stamp was carefully placed in the right-hand corner and dropped into the letterbox. I smiled. I had never had a pen-pal before.

The days went by slowly while I were waiting for an answer. I was anxious to read the reply of what I thought to be a thought provoking letter.

A rainy day, particularly nasty, I felt the need to take a walk. There was no particular reason for this, but on rainy days I feel there is something particularly forbidden, almost, about being outside in heavy rain.
It turned out it was my stomach leading the way. I headed down to the local pub, thinking a pint would be a nice consolation price for the weather. There weren't many there, just the barman and another customer sitting in the corner. A flashback to the scene in The Lord of the Rings where Aragorn is introduced crosses my mind. I turn away, barely able to stifle my laughter at this, now, bit of a cliché scene.
I looked over at the strange man again, and felt like he were staring hard at me. I decided that the pint would be enjoyed regardless of how quickly I drank it.
So I did, slammed the money on the bar, saluted the barman and left.
Making sure the hood on my jacket was fully covering my head as I trotted along in the rain, I decided that I could do my shopping. Little did I know that the stranger from the bar were following me.
Filling my head with prospective song lyrics and humming to myself I went home to watch TV.
Not one of my most creative nights, I'll admit.
I was oblivious to the stranger outside, looking at me through my window, lurking, soaking wet.

Thunder rolled over the sky, like a a warm wool blanket over the world. I noticed how dark it suddenly had got. I turned off the TV and headed for bed, possibly less clever than before, and drifted to sleep.
The stranger outsid
e stood there, staring.
And I were sleeping. Unaware of my visitor.
A particularly loud thunder clap woke me up a couple of hours later and I decided that a glass of water would be brilliant right about now.

Outside the figure had vanished.

When I saw wet footprints on the floor, I became somewhat sceptical of my current situation. I put the glass down and quietly went into the kitchen to get a rolling pin.
Invigorated with a new sense of courage, I turned on the lights and saw that the footprints led to my bedroom.
The blood in my veins turned into ice as I went in, ready to strike.

But I never had the chance to strike. I fell to the floor and remained there.
They found me with a letter addressed to me in my hand.
No fingerprints but my own.

I guess I have learnt now, a little too late, that sending a letter to a belieber with obsessive-fanatic tendencies is a somewhat bad idea.

And whatever you do, DO NOT send the half-burnt stub of a ticket.