Thunk

Ive always wanted to drop something heavy and a bit wet off something high onto something hard and unforgiving.

Ive always wanted to drop a melon out of the window and wait precious seconds before watching it make a pleasant noise as it ends its useful life below me.

Ive always wanted to have five minutes with a baseball bat with a room full of porcelain figurines on glass shelves, but thats beside the point right now, because, lets face it, I cant carry on this paragraph much longer without picking up quite the following in the online-psycho community.

Anyway. Those things are nice, but they dont make quite the right kind of noise. The first makes a PLOTH, I would imagine. The second a THRRLUPH! And the third a kind of TINKLE! TINK-YAY!WOO!-KLE! YEAH! etc. None of which are quite as simple and pleasant a word as Thunk.

Thunk.

It sounds like something heavy being dropped off something not really that high onto something slightly forgiving and accepting of the concept. Which is a good enough description as any of me hitting the weekend, I suppose.

The weekend comes and I collapse again.

Oh, no, dont get me wrong, its not a bad thing. Oh thats not a bad thing at all. Nonononono. Because much as the grown up part of me is kicking at my kidneys and trying to convince me that weekends are for long walks and healthy eating (its called a biological clock, I think – lets talk about it another time), my teenage heart still tells me that weekends are for sleeping and hangovers and sleeping and telly and naps. And Sleeping.

Weekends are for going thunk. Head meets pillow – thunk. Head meets sofa arm – thunk. Glass hits ice, thunk. No, damnit, thats more plink, isnt it. Well, lets imagine its really fucking big ice. Thunk. Anna meets bed.

Thunk.

Thunking is good.

Not *quite* as good as attacking a showroom full of pobsy little porcelain figures of children dressed up as farmers wearing HATS and with little porcelain pigs sleeping at their pobsy little feet, and the pigs are ALSO in fucking hats and women in pastel crinolines with touches of gold leaf just to makeem look that Little bit classy and collections of sweatshop-painted miniatures of stilettos and God theyre all just Vile, arent they? And sorry, where was I? Hang on – is good, something something, attacking showroom yadda, yadda, porcelain Oh yes, that was it, ahem

. Not quite as good as attacking a showroom full of *twitch, twitch* with glee in your heart and a big fuckoff baseball bat, but you cant have everything, now, can you?

(Thank you red for the inspiration)