The Thing That Wouldn't Die

So, I had this humorous letter written up for the blog about ending my relationship with my scale. It was cutesy, funny, and totally Suge, but I had to abandon that quirky little letter to tell a better story. Please, allow me to elaborate...

I have noticed, that if I have a scale in the house, I will be tempted to weigh myself. I've known this for awhile. I had the scale but it didn't have batteries. A few weeks ago, I got it batteries and the fucker came to life. And I knew that having that little shit stain in my house meant I'd always want to know my weight.

And that was true. I weighed myself before I got in the shower, and after. I weighed myself when I was washing my hands. I weighed myself before and after I took a shit. I was weight crazy!

But then I noticed something. I weighed myself one minute, and a minute or two later, I weighed myself again. Somehow, I'd managed to gain six pounds.

Oh that can't be right, I told myself. I stepped on it again and became six pounds lighter. I weighed myself the next day and was nearly ten pounds heavier. What the eff?

I concluded that it must not have quite survived the move from my brothers domicile to my place. It had to go.

Even with that knowledge, I couldn't stop weighing myself. At first, it was funny, I wondered how much weight I'd gained or lost just from walking into one room from another. But then, I got butthurt about it. I felt as though my fat was bipolar and couldn't decide if it wanted to weigh more or less.

The scale had to go.

One day while having lunch with Kimmeh, I told her I had planned on dismantling the fucking thing. She said she had a machete, I told her a good ol' fashioned hammer would be just fine.

I was wrong. Oh god how I was wrong.

A few hours ago I came home with the intent of destroying something. I started planning how I was going to do it. A few swift hits with the hammer would do it, I thought to myself. I grab my hammer, with my kitteh Ruby in tow, and set out to kill the scale.

I set it on the floor before me. I'm seated, indian style, on the ground. I figure the suckers gonna shatter everywhere, I mean it is made of glass. I put a towel underneath it and, with a sick and twisted smile upon my face, I smash down upon the face of the scale with the hammer.

The sound was AMAZING. Having closed my eyes when I connected, I slowly opened them to see the damage done. What I saw damn near made me shit.

It was intact, with a light scuff mark on its face. Whaaaaaa? I say. I give it another hit and still, it does not break. I hit it again. Nothing happens. The face of the scale is showing all eights, like it was laughing at me or displaying a toothy grin. You can't destroy me, I swear I heard it say, I've had to carry your three hundred pound ass for who knows how long! I've bulked up! I'm ready for anything you can throw at me!

I gasp and hit it with the spiked side of the hammer. Nothing happens. Frustrated, I go nuts and start beating it like it was my stepchild and screaming WHY WON'T YOU DIE!!!!!!! It's still showing all eights. The toothy bastard was going nowhere.

I get up and grab the scale and take it outside. I throw it down hard on the concrete, expecting it to shatter. It doesn't. I pick it up again and throw it down harder than before, and still it doesn't shatter. I stare at it. It's showing 0.0 now, as though it were confused. I look up in horror to see my neighbor from across the way looking at me. We lock eyes for a moment and I collect the scale and go back inside.

I give it a few more whacks with the hammer. I throw it on the linoleum. I get on the fucker and jump at it, watching the numbers bounce from two hundred to zero repeatedly. I bite it (not my best idea but at this point I'm getting desparate). I throw it down a final time.

I'm running out of options and wondering if scales can drown when I spot the screw driver. Smiling slyly, I reach for it and turn back to the scale. You little cunt, let's see you survive this! The scale displays Lo; the batteries are dying but I took that as a sign that the scale's will was weakening.

My instincts tell me to turn it over and stab at the only plastic part of the scale. Being the fierce indian warrior that I probably am not, I give it a few jabs and break apart the plastic. I take off the cover that reads the numbers, ripping wires along the way. The scale gives a small scream of fright. But soon it was silenced.

HA HA! VICTORY!!!! I look at the piece in my hand and it's reading a bunch of eights. But, but, but I stammer, trying to find the words. The eights soon fade and the scale is dead, but I knew it would be back...

I'm quite happy at the defeat. I take a picture to celebrate this joyous occasion. I give a maniacal laugh. And then, I notice my foot is bleeding. Once I notice this, I feel pain. The fucker cut me before it faded!

I bandage up my wound and throw the scale away. It's time for bed. I grab my book and head to the bedroom. Ruby follows. I know soon I will fall into sleep. I know soon, I will be dreaming of this defeat, and how I came out of this battle, nearly unscathed.

~Suge