(Un)Familiar

I remember the first time I learned that people died. The first time that I considered how our skin yielded to the ravages of time, and our eyes popped from our skulls to be devoured by small maggots and all manner of tiny things with many legs. I was sat on the floor, tucked beneath the ironing board, as my mother flattened the creases from clothes in a compassionate act of steam and warmth, placing them eventually, neatly folded, on the white leather sofa. In the years which would follow, the sofa would become brown and the woman conducting the ironing would change, but this had very little to do with death in the literal sense. More to the point and perhaps more disturbingly, I would also became too large to fit underneath the ironing board and would spend most of my time instead sneaking crisps into the pocket of my dressing gown, so that I could eat them in my bedroom without fear of judgement, or indeed fear of human interaction.

Bleeding Out

The builders were waving their rods around outside the window.

‘Shove that rod in ‘ere.’

‘I shoved my rod in ‘er!’

‘Waaaheey!’

The Lonely

In the belly of the night we fled, leaving the light switches dripping with blood. They would find their end in a flicker of red magic, ballooning against perspective. We took our flight hand in hand to the very edge of the horizon and further into the darkness. The world crumbled behind us in a haze of azure mist, and as we walked we met misfortune and the lazy penetration of death.

The First Blog

And so it begins; the blog to begin all blogs. For today however there will be no story, or interesting fact, or morbidly fascinating account of how a 60 year old man proposistioned me in a hotel, over fish and chips. No. Today I declare the purpose of this aforementioned and currently particularly scarce blog as being an opportunity for me to merge the reality and inclination to exaggerate within my own head, here in pixel format. This should prove both extremely compelling, and needlessly boring. I apologise for this now, and shall likely do so again in the future.

And thus, the Insanity Aquarium is born: void of fish, but whose author overflows with the desperate need to unload all the various and over-emphasised tales of llamas and horny old men that simply would not be tolerated in normal society.

I sincerely hope that you enjoy.

Anna.