I Think I’ll Donate This Severed Head to the Salvation Army
I don’t have room for this severed head anymore, but it’s still perfectly good. Keeping it isn’t an option because the bachelor pad I’m moving into is only 350 square feet. That’s enough space for four severed heads, tops.
My mom said I could box up the excess severed head and keep it in her attic, but I really don’t need to give her anything else to hold over me. She’s already constantly reminding me that she has my childhood hamsters – Beep and Bork – in her deepfreeze. Besides, I wouldn’t be doing it justice by packing it away. Severed heads are meant to be displayed and enjoyed.
I called my friend Franklin and asked if he wanted to enjoy it.
“No dude, I’m more of a shrunken head kind of guy,” he said. “I don’t have the patience to provide the necessary care and upkeep of a full-size… or the money. Do you know how much a tube of severed head wax costs these days?”
“Fine,” I replied. “Stick with your little trinkets.”
Everyone else I offered it to assumed I was trying to unload my shittiest severed head. That is not the case. It’s actually my best severed head. Why would I get rid of my best severed head? Because it’s the one I’m least emotionally attached to. My shittiest severed head, on the other hand, I bought with my first paycheck from my first job out of college, so it means a lot to me, despite its overly fingered nostrils and scabby, totally unkissable lips.
This one though, with its milky white skin and minimal rot, it doesn’t mean shit to me. My ex, Shawna, bought it for me and, believe me, that bitch paid top dollar. She always paid top dollar for everything, including her first class ticket to Hong Kong, which is where she is now, fucking some business guy in some sparkly tower, probably surrounded by the coolest severed heads. That bitch.
Fuck her and her gifts. You know what? Even if I had the space, I’d get rid of this thing. I don’t need it hanging around, reminding me of Shawna and her “I love you but I just can’t do this anymore” bullshit. “This.” What is “this”? Fucked if I know. This fancy-ass severed head sure the hell doesn’t know.
I’m not even going to bother trying to sell it. I just want to get it out of my life. I’m going to throw it in a sack with the goldfish bowl I kept it in, as well as some old spatulas, pit-stained T-shirts and a bunch of severed toes. I thought I was going to get into collecting them too, but that was a nonstarter. You can stare into the dead eyes of a severed head forever, but severed toes… well, let’s just say they aren’t nearly as whimsical. Anyway, it’s all going to the Salvation Army right now.
Goodbye, severed head. Goodbye painful memories of the only woman who ever loved me enough to give me something so spectacular. I hope some lonely boy who has yet to discover the joys of severed head collecting will pick this beauty up and become so obsessed he never gets involved with women.
That would make it all worthwhile.