Sometimes I imagine that if I leave my dehumidifier on overnight while I am sleeping that it will suck all the water out of my body. And because my body is like 70% water (or something) I will wake up empty and shrunken and shrivelled and all-round pathetic-looking and waterless. I will have a wooden throat with sharp chords carved into it and fig-like eyes. My brain will be the size of a sad walnut. All of the tubes in me will become like worms that were stranded on the footpath after a sudden bout of rain and dried up in the harsh post-storm sunshine. Flat, brittle strings of skin.
Someone will come into my room in the morning and fetch the water components of myself out of the square-shaped bucket sitting underneath the dehumidifier. It will be slightly off-grey and have oily bits floating around on top. They will pour me out of my own window so that bits of me splash into the garden, onto the window sill, the ground. I will soak into the earth and real, living worms will find me to nibble on, tasty morsels.
The small, hard bits (30%) of me left in the bed will probably be crunched up by dust mites. Which is ironic because I am allergic to dust mites. I guess they win.
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