I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. I have too; it’s the only place where they can’t get me. Stupid little shits, constantly trying to latch on, gnaw through my denim trousers (that’s right, I just used “denim” and “trouser” together).
I’m not sure why they’re here, or what they want, unless it’s my head of course. They seem vicious enough, greasy little turds, now pacing back and forth. Tugging on the doors to see if there’s a way for them to climb up. I’m screwed if they do. They’re small, but there’s a shit-load of them, enough to chew me through in minutes.
Bet that’ll suck plenty.
Wait, what’s that one doing? Is it actually humping another one? Oh no. Oh shit. It’s climbing up on the other’s shoulders. Oh fuck. Listen, if you find this letter, run. They’re fast, you won’t see them coming and, as it turns out, the sink won’t keep you safe.
“Kirsten Piccini’s suggestion was scientifically chosen by the same Top Intellectual Men to be ideal for the wide interpretation of a writing prompt.”