A dark and senseless bird, floating.

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"I'll kill you, you bird" I said to the bird with Matt's face, but to be honest I really said it more to Matt, the real Matt, not the face-of-Matt on the bird. The moment the words left my lips I regretted them, because deep down, Matt was my friend, but as soon as I regretted them, I changed my mind and I did not regret them. I meant those words with every ounce of my being and soul and mind.

I wanted to kill Matt. I hated Matt.

• I hated the way he lounged on the couch and read e-books on his Nook instead of watching Breaking Bad with me on my Kindle fire.
• I hated how he was disrespectful and unsupportive of my fantasy restaurant wiki.
• I hated how he left the milk out once.
• I hated how he would make jokes about Breaking Bad and said that he was glad Walter White was dead at the end of season 5 because at least that way they would never make another Breaking Bad episode
• I hated how he said Breaking Bad ripped off Weeds.
• I hated how he didn't like the spaghetti that I cooked on Fridays even though it is my mom's special recipe and she died of uterus cancer last year.
• I hated how he broke my external hard drive full of Breaking Bad fan art when he fell off of the chair he was standing on to hang my GI JOE posters and broke his leg on my external hard drive container.

I picked up the bird with Matt's face and I violently clamped my teeth onto its neck in an effort to bite its head off in one grotesque chomp, but ended up taking several minutes of chewing and gnawing to actually accomplish because it is a lot harder to bite a bird's head off that you would think.

The bird and the bird's head fell to the ground unceremoniously and also a great deal of the bird's blood also fell to the ground after it fell out of my feather-filled mouth. The feathers in my mouth were also covered in blood and some of them were stuck between my teeth but I didn't care, all I cared about was doing to the real Matt exactly what I had done to the bird that carried his visage.

As I stormed away, back towards our apartment, I glanced back at the remains of the bird and was startled to see a smile slowly creeping onto bird-Matt's gore-coated face.

I immediately started running as quickly as I could, thankful that I had recently read a lifehacker article about how to run like the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico who run wearing only sandals they fashion out of tire treads and leather and they run for many, many miles. I called upon my vast knowledge of their running technique and prowess and it was as if in that moment my Crocs animorphed into authentic Tarahumara running sandals, giving me the speed and agility that I needed to reach my apartment.

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