Anton, like most undead, craves cerebral matter for nutrition. I have spent the last 6 days trying to prevent him from burrowing into my ear while I sleep. He is too large to fit, actually. And given that he is toothless and his tongue is not capable of making it around the various bends and turns in my facial orifices, I am not concerned he will do me any harm.
Yet, whenever he thinks I am not looking, he pounces at me. He scrambles for my ear or nostril, desperate for that sweet brain. It is only a matter of time before he realizes my mouth is another option. When Captain Apehab arrives to lower the laptop down in the well bucket, I know Barry Shirley is only a few feet away. Stifling the giggles. He knows I will one day be forced to kill Anton, and subsequently my perineum.
Did he know this would happen? Does he read this blog, calculating Anton's demise as he calibrates the various instruments of torture?
Last night as I was given my weekly spoon of lemon juice and margarine for sustenance, Anton knocked it to the filthy ground. It was lost in the muck. I fear that even my legendary patience will near its end soon, and I will be forced to make the ultimate sacrifice.
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