Do you remember the huge boxes of Crayolas everyone wanted in elementary school? I'm sure you do. Even if you didn't have one, you wanted one. I know I did. Until, I think, the third or fourth grade the 64 pack was the one to have. It had all the best colors. Sure, there were the originals, red, blue, yellow, and all that, but it also had the fancy colors. You remember them. Burnt sienna, jungle green, cerulean blue. See, those memories are flowing back.

Now that you remember, what was your favorite? Aside from black, which is the one crayon that was so short, it didn't have a point any longer, and the sleeve was in shreds? Mine was cerulean blue. In my books, this color ruled the world. I always questioned what a cerulean meant, but to this day have never taken the two seconds on google to figure it out. I realize now that I don't even care. The sense of wonder that crayon gave me, the creativity and beauty (as much as a 7 year-old's drawings are beautiful), is worth the unknown for once in my life. I don't need to know. I don't want to know.

The downside to cerulean blue being the best color, and there was a downside, was that the worst color in the whole box looked so similar to my beloved cerulean that I would sometimes grab it, thinking that it was cerulean, and when I started coloring the most awful color ever to grace a Crayola crayon would ruin my masterpiece. Cornflower blue, you know who you are. You are, to this day, the most vile crayon hiding out in my beloved 64 pack of Crayolas. You existed to spite me. I always believed that, even if I didn't know the words. 

Cornflower, even though you were my most reviled color, I never considered getting rid of you. I never considered tossing you out in to the trash (which would have easily been done). That would have left a hole in my collection. My family would have been missing a piece. 

The scouring pad lay in the middle of the living room. Yellow and green and as out of place as an octopus on a bike in the desert in July. 

Alice walked through the room, casually stepped over the sponge and continued on her way. She didn't wonder how it got there, or why it was there. She didn't even notice the blood seeping out and dcomgealing around it on the floor. It wasn't until she made her way to her office and made herself comfortable at the computer for a long day of working, which translated to fucking around on twitter and not doing much else of consequence, that the souring pad even registered. 

She tweeted to her 57 followers:

@aliceinwonderland: The fuck. There is a bloody sponge in the middle of my living room.

Naturally, her followers, thinking she was British (a fact that was both untrue, and that she let people think true), thought nothing much of the occurrence. In fact, most ignored the post totally, aside from the catty handful that joked about it being a reflection of her poor housekeeping skills. 

Soon, immersed in the flow of all things Internet related, she simply forgot about the scouring pad. Alice wasn't one to take much out of stride wrote it off as a simple lapse on the part of her roommate. He must have cooked and let the dog get hold of the remains. 

Two hours later, when the call of nature urged her toward the bathroom... She found a nicely, albeit bloodily, scoured man and dog dangling in the shower.

"My twitter followers are never going to believe this."