I am naught but a scratch-post.

In school children learn about Prometheus. He gave man fire and thus was chained to a rock by Zeus and had his liver eaten daily by a great eagle, only to have it grow back. This kind of torture is comparable to that of Jesus or the victims of Vlad the Impaler, but I believe that I have it worse. You see, I am naught but a scratch-post.

I can't run; I don't have legs. I can't scream; I don't have a mouth. I don't know when they're coming; I don't have eyes. I sit in darkness and fear, waiting for my predator to arrive. Prometheus' punishment was daily; he knew what to expect and when to expect it. All I know is that at any time, the cats could come for me. They tear me apart and I can't do a damn thing to escape it. I can't sleep; I don't have a pons or a reticular activating system. My wound don't heal; I'm made out of plastic and carpet. My existence is pure pain. Don't ask how I can feel pain, this blog assignment is what sucked me into this universe of torment. For the love of all that is good, publish the post so that I may recede back into the lower plane of the non-living. It's been awhile since my last lashing. Please, one of them must be coming soon.