cypher_greyhat

Disable Search Indexing in options. It uses a buggy piece of garbage called Akonadi in the background and was causing one core of my CPU to stay at 100% for no reason.

My wife has always liked Pixy Stix. It was fine at first. She’d have one every once in a while. Then she’d need one after every meal. I thought she was going through a phase.

That was when I started noticing that there were massive wads of crumpled up Pixy Stix wrappers buried in the trash where she thought I wouldn’t notice them. I started looking at the online grocery orders she was placing, and she wasn’t getting packs of Pixy Stix. No. She was getting cases.

She was going through two packs a day, like a lifetime smoker. And, honestly, if there was a way to smoke Pixy Stix, I wouldn’t put it past her. It was getting out-of-control.

I had to do something.

Sitting in bed one night, I knew it was time to talk to her about it.

“Honey, it seems like maybe you’re having a little bit of trouble with controlling how many Pixy Stix you eat.”

“Oh?” she asked sweetly. “And why do you think that?”

“Well,” I said, “I did the math, and you averaged over a hundred and fifty Pixy Stix a day last week.”

She just laughed. And when she turned to look into my eyes, I knew something was wrong.

My wife has beautiful hazel eyes. Rich browns with a hint of green. But when she looked at me, her eyes were the bright powdery blue of Maui Punch-flavored Pixy Stix. When she breathed out, a cloud of mist came out, like it was cold, but our room was a perfectly comfortable temperature. And the cloud of mist was the vibrant chemical purple of Grape-flavored Pixy Stix.

“Maybe,” she growled, “you should mind your own business!”

“I just worry about you, hun,” I said.

“Worry about this,” she roared. She opened her mouth so wide, it seemed like her jaw had unhinged, and brightly colored powder began erupting from her mouth like a Pixy Stix volcano. It pumped out fast as a fire hose, blasting me off the bed. As the powder began to flow off our bed, I started to back away from the bed and towards the door. The air was full of a cloud of flavored dust, and it got into my nose and eyes, causing my face to burn. The flow wouldn’t stop, and as drifts of Pixy Stix dust as deep as my thighs began to form up in our bedroom, I bolted. Running through the living room, I kept on running to my daughter’s bedroom.

Yanking the door open, I grabbed my daughter from her bed and began to run again.

“What’s going on?” she mumbled, a mix of sleepy and afraid.

“Just hang tight, kiddo. I’ll explain when we’re safe.”

When I reached the living room again, huge waves of Pixy Stix powder were flowing out of the bedroom, creating a rainbow-colored tide. I waded through the powder, yanked open the front door, and with my daughter in my arms, ran out into the night.

WR

Original author: WendigoRoar