Real Life Human Torch.

In the past, my friends have described me as a weirdo. When I say 'past', I really mean...Well, to this day. Not so much in a creepy, black trenchcoat mafia kind of way, but more along the lines of a Star Wars obsessed creep who blushes and stutters in the presence of the opposite sex.
Back when I was a young adult, I moved out. I was young, rebellious and dating a girl on a college campus with a bit of inherited money. This allowed me to pursue my career as a musician, and essentially obtain a sugar momma before I was even old enough to buy a beer.

The house was adorable. A quaint yellow house that had seen better days. However, emitting an undefined charm perhaps produced by the magic of being the first place I've ever lived in away from home.
She was a nice girl, and her intentions couldn't have been any better. One day, I'd finished up with band practice early. I rushed home to sit down on her computer and post on hipster message boards, ranting and raving about Coheed & Cambria, Minus The Bear and Poison The Well, which were the prominant bands of discussion at the time.


I hear a soft sobbing approaching the door. It bursts open, and the wind blows my hair into my eyes. She's screaming as if she's being raped with a rotating cactus, lubed with rubbing alcohol.


Her arms flailing around like a whirlin' dervish while tears decorate the walls like a salty sprinkler. I reluctantly remove myself from the internet, and inquire about the water works.
Sniffling and sobbing between words I could barely understand, she explaied that mere hours ago, her grandmother doused herself in gasoline, and set herself ablaze.

"...Really?" I ask in disbelief.
"Yuh-Yuh-Yeah...Sh-Sh-She burned to death."

Now, you'll understand why I'm weird. According to my socialogical research, people in my situation are supposed to show compassion and console the distrought individual. A hug, a pat on the back, even a cheesy reference pertaining to going to a better place.
First, I question the whole ordeal. Why would someone kill themselves in such a slow, methodic and painful manner? What a freaking stupid way to die.
If I planned on suicide, a fiery blaze would be somewhere on the list, below drowining in rancid mayonaise and choking on my own dick.

It gets much worse from here. In my youth, I had trouble holding back verbally speaking what images and thoughts which went through my head.
I stand up cheefully, and proudly recall-

"The Human Torch WAS the coolest member of the Fantastic Four."

The akward pause was interupted by the sound of her jaw hitting the floor. I guess comic book references in a time of mourning aren't cool. It was a day of personal discovery!
This was sort of ironic, based on her reaction. Unknown to me, pissed off women have the phsyical ability to morph into the Tazmanian Devil when angry.

Our cute little home is annihilated as she spins around, hurling anything within reach about the living room. Two thoughts come to mind at this point-
1. The Cubs could use another good arm in their bullpen.
2. You mess up the living room, you clean up the living room. Whore.
This amuses me. The situation dictates that I do not laugh...I realize this.
But ever so slightly, EVER SO SLIGHTLY my mouth curls in an upward manner.
Because everyone knows The Thing was way cooler than the Human Torch.
Of course she notices. I'm far too unlucky to get away with that.

Suddenly, this turns into a bar fight. A broken bottle and a death-stare lead me to believe that I'll be picking pieces of glass from my scrotum until the ambulance shows up.
I begin to panic, and conjure up a mental estimation of the closest doors and windows I may use as an escape from before she gets stabby.
She steps towards me. Once. Probably for nothing more than to force me into an apology.
I panic and pee a just a little. I realize that I'd better pull a rabbit out of my hat.

All this does, is buy me a brief moment in shock value, allowing me to escape with my own penis not hot-glued to my forehead.

After sleeping on the couch for a week, everything was resolved when I finally apologized.
Shortly after, someone knocks on the door early in the morning waking us up.
She yawns and stretches, then looks at me and says "Bee are bee."
I pause, and consider the practicalityof this. "Be right back" is only 3 syllables. As is "bee are bee."
No time nor effort is saved in this useless internet based abbreviation. There's no logical use for such in a real life capacity. This results in me packing up my stuff and moving back home.
I would have rather lived in my parents basement than endure internet lingo in real life.
Many years later, I feel the exact same way.