Chantal has deteriorated so atrociously in the past few months--mentally, emotionally, psychologically, physically--that I quite long for the Nick days of yore when she excitedly told us she wanted to start taking care of herself more, and shower more, and "cream (my) whole body." Remember that line? Creaming her body? It seemed like such a bizarre, lurid way of describing moisturizing; the phrase was so unnatural, like a bizarre ESL translation, it was almost unsayable...and it took so many of us aback. Pretty gross, Chantal, we thought. How controversial, how graphic, how wrong to say such a thing out loud!
Since then, we have been subjected to verbal, visual, sonic, and basically olfactory horrors (come on, at this point we can smell her) that would cause David Cronenberg to either gain inspiration for the next decade, or hide under his bed until this all passes (Dave, it's gonna be a while). This unscripted unraveling of Chantal has been an absolute nail-biting series of increasing perversions and nightmarescapes which rival that of a Goya painting, and has taken us to existential meditations on how blessed most of us are to not be: smearing Nutella on our hands and bared teeth; burning ourselves with crack pipes; taking audible shits with the bathroom door open; stashing trays of KFC in our dresser drawers; blowing our noses into soiled panties taken from the floor; screaming over a shortage of unappetizing fast-food slop; neglecting and musing about abandoning our pets; disregarding our grandmother's death; financially supporting an aggressive, unemployed, ex-con drug addict; sneering at our hatred of McDonald's whilst inhaling an order of it the very next day; displaying and gripping our grotesque, outsized abdomen during a coke-fueled rage dance; and countless other things I can't list right here, and ALL LIVE, ALL ONLINE, ALL FOREVER DOCUMENTED ON THE INTERNET TO STAY THERE PERMANENTLY.
My kingdom for some body-creaming goals.