killer clown

A day in the life of a killer clown

5:30 a.m. I awake, startled. The rampant thumping of my heart is hard against my chest. I clutch the collar of my ragged T-shirt, finding it damp. My heartbeat grows quicker, my breathing growing harsher as the cool air swirls around the edge of my lips. What the fuck, Martha? I glower at the peaceful figure beside me. Her legs spoon around what could have been my backside, but is instead the skillfully gripped covers of the polka-dotted duvet comforter dual pack I bought at Pottery Barn two weeks ago. I sigh — she does this all the time. I…

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