“No sooner had I raised my spoon to my mouth! The familar scent of burnt rubber stimulates in me a hunger that no food can satisfy. What meal could compare to the feast of sight and sound that awaits me below, in the street? <lj-cut>

Perhaps I should turn on the oven or get some tin foil for this food, I know I had some somewhere... no, forget it. Time is wasting. My stomach rumbles in rebelion but my soul is crying out for something far more exquisite.
I can't help it. Every time I hear the sound of metal on metal, I can't fight the urge to investigate.
I would, and indeed I have, rushed outside in a robe, in the rain, at 3 am. I have even ventured outside during the hurricane last summer. My passion knows no bounds.

That's funny, I just realized that I am wearing the knitted blue vest that mother made me. Before she passed away. Poor mother. It's terrible that she had to die that way, but as they say, you reap what you sow. Perhaps that was Providence's way of repaying her for what she has done. But that was long ago, and it is no matter to me now.

I have often speculated that my fascination with car accidents began in my early adulthood but then again, I had always been fascinated by accidental injuries, ever since I was a child.

Accidents seem to shadow me. Particularly motor vehicle accidents. I am superstitious? Maybe. But consider this: this week alone has netted a total of three car crashes, all of which occurred on beach street, which just so happens to be the street that runs directly in front of my apartment complex. All of the crashes occured when I was home alone and able to run outside immediately to taste what happened.

It's hard to explain, but the sights and sounds of mighty detroit steel being crushed to me is... exquisite. The undulating folds in a chunk of crumpled metal are as appealing to me as the curvature of a lover's hips. The charred, brown remains of exploded vehicles are to me, as sweet as delicious chunks of chocolate. I cannot wait to see what has happened! It's probably nothing major.

One can only hope.

It seems that I can not hit "down" enough, is this thing jammed? No, here it comes. Good, nobody else is on their way down. If I am fortunate, the crowd has not yet gathered outside.

Finally, the bottom floor.

Damn! There are people in the lobby, waiting for the elevator to take them up! But how could they possibly want to go up? What fools!

But I am glad that few share with me this exquisite perversion. There are some that do, but not many.
I must fight the urge to sprint, for I would hate for one of my neighbors to suspect me of eccentricity. My enthusiasm is sometimes... difficult to conceal.

I am somewhat ashamed to admit that these events cause an extreme, spontaneous, animal-like degree of sexual arousal in my body. I have not even noticed until now that I had been gently massaging myself through my pants on the elevator ride down. Now it seems that my hand has literally plunged through the stitching of my right pocket.

I must try to be subtle.

Perhaps if I casually strole by the accident, as if I were on my way to pick up a newspaper, or get a cup of coffee.
Oh my... it's a police vehicle. The side door looks like it has been nearly knocked off it's hinges by an overtaking vehicle.

Indeed! Further down the road, the ambulance blares, and a circle of paramedics seem to be peeling something off of the street. This must have been intentional. Someone must have actually ran over a police officer as he was getting out of his squad car! I must fight the urge to squeel out for joy.

What madness!

What delicious madness!”

megamerican