Imagination

Parafraseado de una conversación por chat con mi novio...
Creo que imaginación no nos falta!! xD

Yo: oh god, oh god. Porqué tengo una imaginación tan morbosa????
Estaba estudiando y en un pedazo te dice que podés cerrar un capilar de vidrio que contiene sangre sellándolo con plastilina o fundiéndolo con la llama, pero cuidando de que la sangre no se queme o salga expulsada por hervor. Entonces se me vino a la cabeza que qué pasaría primero si te caes en un pozo con lava: si te hierve la sangre primero o si te derretís antes or both
It's just sick!!!
Maldita imaginación activa que tengo! Fue demasiado vívida la imagen que tuve!!
D: hola mi amor
jajajajaja
qué imaginación, seriously
pero bueno, a mí se me han ocurrido cosas peores
Yo: como qué?
porque hervirme/derretirme en lava no me pareció muy divertido xD
D: y, mirá
alguna vez, no me acuerdo exactamente en qué circunstancia, me imaginé una persona con sus tejidos invertidos
no sé si me explico
digamos
la piel por dentro
y los músculos por fuera
recubierta de sangre
Yo: ouch
D: como para una película de zombies
Yo: jajajajajajaj
qué buena idea!!!
para un cuento!!
tipo kafka:
George se lavantó y en lugar de ser una cucaracha, se dio cuenta de que mientras dormía, se le habían invertido los tejidos y ahora estaba chorreando sangre por la pieza...
D: jajajajajjajajaja

Hipocondríaca

No tengo nada que decir en mi defensa, Señor Juez.
Sólo que tanto estudio sobre fisiopatología me llevó a darme cuenta de que sufro de un severo trauma neurológico, derivado de la acumulación de ácidos grasos impares por la anemia perniciosa que se me generó cuando una lombriz solitaria impidió la absorción de vitamina B12 en mi intestino delgado. Y que esa lombriz solitaria me la contagié en el laboratorio de parasitología cuando estaba distraida porque caí en cuenta de que el ateroma que estoy segura de que debo tener en el cayado aórtico debe ser por la hiperlipidemia generada por la falta de receptores de LDL en las células que heredé de mis padres. Además me di cuenta de que mi orina tiene proteinuria gracias a la muestra que llevé per jodere al turno de orina de bioquímica clínica. Y después de leer sobre el mieloma múltiple junto con el dato de orina antes mencionado, estoy segura de que ese dolor de articulaciones que siento desde que empecé las clases debe ser causado por una hipocalcemia generada por ese tumor junto el hecho de que la lombriz solitaria no me deja absorber más calcio. A su vez, ahora que lo pienso, siento un dolor muy fuerte en el hipocondrio inferior derecho, con lo que estoy segura de que debo estar generando un abdomen agudo por una apendicitis. Y la hichazón que ve, no es sólo obesidad sino que es ascitis por hipertensión portal por lo que seguro tengo insuficiencia hepática por una cirrosis crónica por tener cálculos de colesterol en la vesícula que me obstruyen los conductos biliares y por ende no poder eliminar los ácidos biliares. No ve que mis ojos están amarillos??? Es la bilirrubinemia!!
Y aún así no entiende por qué puse una bomba en el Departamento de Bioquímica?
Sin las clases de estos profesores nunca me hubiera enterado de todo lo que tenía! Merecían morir.

Featured Blog

I've only opened Morbid Shorties two days ago and already is a featured blog in the Tag "Writing" in Wordpress.com, thanks to my last post: Brownies.
Nice! =D

Morbid Shorties

Hace algunos años me di cuenta de que, si bien no soy una persona agresiva ni violenta, necesito descargar mis emociones negativas de alguna manera. Y ese cable a tierra lo encontré a los 14 años a través de la escritura.
Es un estilo de escritura que sé que a no todos les gusta porque es demasiado agresivo, sangriento, morboso... en fin, para resumirlo, demasiado psicópata. Pero esto sólo queda en el papel, o, hablando más tecnológicamente, en los posts.
Ya se tubo un poco de este estilo de escritura en los posts bajo la etiqueta de Morbid Nonsense... para aquellos que les gustaron esos posts, pueden seguir leyendo este tipo de entradas en mi nuevo blog: Morbid shorties
Espero que le guste. Y si no, no importa, porque en realidad lo escribo para mí. Pero de cualquier manera, si les gusta, me alegro =)

Un muerto para armar

Una viuda reciente llega a su casa y se encuentra con una caja de 2 metros de largo, 1 metro de alto y 1 metro de ancho en la entrada de su casa. Llama a su vecino para que la ayude a entrarla y luego de mucho esfuerzo consiguen meterla en el comedor. La viuda toma una nota que estaba pegada a la caja, la lee, se le escapa un grito desgarrador y cae al suelo desmayada.
El vecino no puede con su curiosidad y en lugar de atender a la viuda, corre a su lado y toma la nota:

Sra.
No tuve tiempo de coserlo.
Hay demasiados casos últimamente.
Encarguese Ud.
Atentamente,
Dr. Figueroa
Médico Forense

Perdón por el tema,
pero hoy me acaban de decir que
a lo mejor vamos a ver una autopsia...
(El estilo del post (no el tema) proviene del blog pH 2.5
Idea de la cual surge el "chiste": prof de parásito)

Another night's work

Note: This is totally fiction. None of this is true. It's just the work of a bored quasi-stood up woman who likes to read lots of murder stories and when writing them, instead of seeing them from the lawful point of view, sees them the other way around... This said, I hope you enjoy the short story =)


She was dead. She was dead and it was raining. It was a terrible cliche. Every horror movie, every murder scene seems to comprise of a rainy night. It seems almost like a need-to-have in order to make the story more interesting and appealing. But this was no story, no movie. She was truly dead and by my hand.
My footsteps were hidden by the sound of the fat raindrops that fell as I walked away from the scene. My raincoat was soaked through and I was starting to feel uncomfortable.
Not the best weather to work tonight, I thought to myself. It had an advantage, though. It helped wash the blood away. And little evidence would be left after a rain like there was that night.
Half the work is cleaning after myself in order not to get caught. The killing is easy. I just think of them as the animals that they are and it's not so different as killing a chicken or a cow to eat. Of course, I don't eat my victims, but they do give me the cash for me to eat. So all in all, killing cows, killing people, it's all the same. It just provides food to my table.
So I couldn't help but smile. Most of the cleaning I would leave to the rain. I seemed like I had some free time that night. Tomorrow I'd get my paybill for this one. Tonight, I'd get ahead of schedule and get the other one.
The house wasn't very far away from my previous work. Just two or three blocks. It wasn't difficult to get inside it, either. I made sure I didn't make much noise. It wasn't easy with my rain soaked shoes, but it wasn't imposible.
He was sleeping. Like an angel. Sometimes it's hard, like when you have to put your favourite cat to sleep because of old age. He didn't seem to be more than five years old. What a pity. Such a young life. But then, I had been paid for this. I had to get the job done. I never asked for the motive behind the contract. It made it personal.
I saw no point in making him suffer. I kill for a living. It doesn't mean that I enjoy seeing them suffer. That's why as fast as I could I grabbed his head and broke his neck.
There. It was done. Tomorrow I'd collect the pay check for this one too.
As I got out of the house and walked the few blocks to take the bus heading for the airport, I wondered briefly why I had been paid to kill the little boy. Never mind, not my business, I thought. I wasn't paid to think, just to do the job.
I wondered then who my next contract would be. It could be anyone. I don't need more than a reason to kill: I just need a big fat check. That's the only reason I need. So again, I wondered who would pay me next and who would I need to kill.
It really could be anyone. It could be another child sleeping peacefully, unconcious of the dirty dealings his parents were doing. It could be a rich bank manager for all I knew...
Or It could be you. Have you thought of it? You, who have been reading my recount of a night's work. Did you really think that just because you are on the other side of this written work that you would be safe? That you could be the annonimous reader who just observes and doesn't participate?
There could be someone who wants you out of the way and I'd be the happy man to make their wish come true, a big fat load of money in the way, of course. A few days from now I could be around the corner, waiting patiently for the opportunity to dispose of you.
It all depends on who is willing to pay. Nobody is truly safe. Have you thought of it? I just thought to warn you.
Beware.
Beware of the shadows that surround you. I could be waiting there.
But of course, if you're my target, you won't see me coming...


==>Remake of a story I wrote quite a while ago. It was called "My perfect crime"...

IT

I had to tell him. I couldn't hide it. It hurt to know it would make him sad. It would hurt him to know It gone. It hurt to actually face him and tell him that it was my fault. It was my deed. My own actions that had robbed it of life.
In my defense, it was an accident. I regretted it.
No. Actually I didn't regret it.
It would be lying to say that I regretted it. And I don't make a habit of lying.
No, I don't regret it at all.
I moved in with my boyfriend knowing IT lived there. In fact, I already knew my boyfriend had one when we started dating. And I thought it wouldn't matter. That I would be able to live with it. I was wrong. My subconscious proofed me wrong.
I moved in and did my best to ignore IT. I pretended it didn't exist, only nodding when my boyfriend spoke of it or took care of it. I couldn't handle the sight of it, so whenever my boyfriend left the flat I tried to go some place else. No, I wasn't going to be there alone with IT.
But one day I couldn't avoid it. My boyfriend had to travel for a week. Someone had to take care of it. You had to feed it. It would die otherwise and that wouldn't be good.
I swear I did my best, even though panic filled me whenever I had to bring it food. Not one night did I sleep at the flat. I was too scared of it to manage to close my eyes when it was in the same room as me.
Then something happened. It was the day before my boyfriend was due to come back home. I ran out of money because I had been spending it all to pay for the room at the hotel I was staying. I didn't have the chance to ask any friend to take me in for a night; my parents live in another city. No, I had no choice. I had to sleep at the apartment.
It took a lot of courage to enter the flat with my bag of clothes. The fact that I had to sleep alone with it in the flat scared me. When my boyfriend was there it was different. I wasn't so scared, although I was disgusted by It. But my boyfriend wasn't there that night.
I didn't eat. I couldn't. All my hunger had left me the moment I entered the flat.
I tried to work, to read a book, to watch TV. I tried to do anything that would distract me from the knowledge that It was there, looking at me, staring at me. I knew it was probably my imagination, but I felt it glaring at me, annoyed by my presence as much as I was scared of it. It didn't like me. I could feel it in my bones.
I must have somehow dozed off on the couch. Yes, I must have. Otherwise I wouldn't have suddenly opened my eyes to find it inches from my arm.
I didn't think. I just reacted.
I took a bunch of my work papers and rolled them. And I hit it with them. Once, twice, many, many times.
And It was dead.
And I stood there and smiled.
It was gone. It was no more.
And my smile grew wider.
And then I heard the keys turning in the front door.
I had to tell him. I couldn't hide it...

Hope

Bloody red tears fell, striking the pavement with a soundless splash. I looked at her sightless eyes and couldn't help but think: Hope was dead.
Yes, literally and figuratively. There was no doubt. Hope was dead for sure.

__