by Bradley Alan
It wasn't a "phantom waffle," but the syrup was somewhat haunted though, as was the sponge I used to clean up my waffle smudge after. Terrified of the possible outcome of possessing such a sponge, I locked the sponge in a metal box, buried it in the basement and turned in for the night. The next morning the sponge was under my pillow. I tried to send it back to the company, but that didn't work either as the manufacturer did not have an exchange policy. The sponge kept appearing in my jacket pocket, and as a matter of fact, I'd better stop typing now. I can see the sponge watching me from my patio and he looks a little bit nervous... but mostly just bloodthirsty.
Bradley Alan writes, paints, and otherwise creates beauty in Phoenix, Arizona. He does not play the harmonica or have an ironing board, but he does make amazing Ramen noodles. For a visit to his ridiculous mind, check him out on MySpace.