I’m scared of having a telemarketer come to my door and sell me a bucket of muffins. I’m scared of walking into a room and finding an unexpectedly large scale model of the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m scared of being stuck in a closet with a jar containing the cast-off skin of an anaconda. I’m scared of clipping my nails. I’m scared of eating a poisonous frog and turning into a Studebaker. I’m scared of being seen as more of an oak than a maple.
When I get scared, I turn into a large stack of Fleetwood Mac albums. I whistle Dixie and cram rotten fish heads into my nostrils. Moths come and nibble my earlobes: foot-wide moths with eyes like tumorous lymph nodes. My internal organs are removed by small men, placed on a display table, and meticulously labeled.
Sometimes I scare other people. These victims turn into cheerleaders and dance the Roger Rabbit at the funerals of flight attendants. These victims reach into their bottomless backpacks and pull out full stage productions of Shakespeare’s masterpieces. They make collect calls to the Vatican.
I’m scared of making you tired. Perhaps we should lie down and take naps to stave off future weariness. I’m scared of making you hungry. Here is a cheesecake; I’ll wait until every last morsel has disappeared into your cavernous maw. I’m scared of making you horny. I’ll be in the next room; let me know when you’re finished. I’m scared of skinning you. Take this carrot peeler away from me before I do something we’ll both regret.
I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.
Ethan Abides 