8/19/17

The Burning Head

There are times when I just want to fuck with August. He did stab me once, after all. Oh, and he’s completely hijacked my life, made things like dating impossible, and other things, like showering and sleeping, uncomfortable. So I got out Edward Gorey’s “The Fantod Pack.” Interpreting it is simple, according to Gorey, one must rely on their “imagination of disaster” and trust me, I’ve got a good one. August, of course, died too early to be familiar with Gorey’s brand of humor.

“What in the devil is this?” August held it out in disgust. When he’s upset he sounds much more like the Victorian Britt he once was (although, I think that particular phrase was considered uncouth). At other times he seems to be adopting my vernacular and sounds peculiarly modern.

“It’s The Burning Head.”

“I don’t care for it.”

“Mmmm, you shouldn’t, it’s awful.”

“How awful?”

“Well, it says that tomorrow should be a vile day. A day full of confusion, dread chills, horrific accidents, and evil company.”

“Oh, well, like every day here then,” August laughed, “you had me worried for a second.” He shook his head and disappeared from the room. Maybe he’s met Gorey’s ghost…