Go back home.
Warning: This is weird.
"It was a dark and stormy night," she typed, then paused, her fingers nervously brushing the tops of the keys. The typewriter glared up at her, seeming to cry out, "You're not my father!"
She glared right back at it and sang songs from the musical Candide until it decided to play nicely. She recalled that Mr. Thorell had said in class that "One sentence does not a paragraph make, and so she added this sentence to the one before it so that she could hit carriage return with a clear conscience.
While her fingers hit random letters, mindlessly forming words and even thoughts that she herself hadn't begun to think, her mind wandered back to the stranger in the deep purple cloak who had accosted her in the garden while se reclined with a swatch of flannel over her eyes, shielding them from the pulsating sun. Then she was brought back to reality with a clang when she realized just how much of a run-on she had created while letting her fingertips have free reign. "Nasty things," she admonished them. "You shouldn't carry on so."
"We aren't a bit sorry," they replied.
Startled, she decided to ignore the fact that her fingers had just spoken to her. Then, thinking again, she decided that it was a grievous offense, and shouldn't be ignored. To sweep the heinous act under the carpet would be a crime against truth, justice, and the American way. Besides, she had just set that ratty old carpet out for the trashman three days before.
So, pushing forcefully back on her plastic chair, she rummaged around in her junk drawer until she found what she was looking for: a pair of antique pinking shears, passed down from her grandmother, and her grandmother's grandmother before her. The shears had a lineage older than the royal family of Czechoslovakia, and she had never been more grateful than the day the bandit had stolen them from the hands of the evil hamster-maiden and seen that they were returned safe and sound to her estate.
She admired their jeweled handles as she methodically sawed through the skin of her left index finger. Blood gushed onto the floor, pooling in a lake of crimson, but surprisingly, she felt no pain - only an acute sense of loss as she realized that the finger would no longer be a constant companion as it had been in the past. Biting her lip to keep the grief from overcoming her, she snipped neatly until her left hand was a blood-soaked set of short, well-sheared stubs. She looked with pride at the skill with which she had cut; the zig-zag edges of her skin flowed in a smooth circle the whole way around each of her former fingers. The amputated bits and pieces were scattered about on the floor. She pulled a dustpan and short broom from a cobwebby corner behind the door and swept the remains of her fingers into the pan, then, with a delicate flick of her wrist, tossed them out the window. From somewhere below, a howling keen drifted up to her, where she listened on the other side of the wall. But the typewriter called her back.
Finding it considerably more difficult to type with one hand out of commission, she dripped blood onto the machine in such quantities that the keys began to stick. She cursed quietly at the machine until, grumbling, it sprouted a sponge on a long bamboo pole and wiped itself off. She treated it to a brilliant smile, typed a few letters, and then paused again. The typewriter smelled so good …
She fished a wooden fork out of the basket that had once contained an aged geranium, and stabbed the typewriter. The utensil easily penetrated its soft skin. She thought that she might have heard it cry out, very softly - almost as though the sound came from (gasp) ANOTHER DIMENSION!!! But, strangely, she didn't care. Letting a primal scream rip from her throat, she tore into the helpless and hapless grey machine and devoured it, bit by bit, from the letter Q to the letter M, from the knob on its carriage to the pad on its underside to the cord in its behind.
She decided, then, after munching steadily away for half an hour, that as a vegetarian, she probably should have shown a little more restraint. A frantic thought flew into her brain: "WHAT IF THE PSEUDO-PRIEST FINDS OUT??" The concept threw her into a panic. She brushed crumbs of plastic from her chin, opened the window, and, holding her breath, stepped out. She fell into the hole that a surly-looking bunch of construction types had been mysteriously digging all that day while singing obscure pirate songs and admiring each other's tattoos. As she fell to her death, she noticed that they were all very muscular, and almost became impregnated by the simple virtue of having looked at such testosterone-filled beings. Luckily, though, the egg did not fully fertilize, and when she got to the bottom of the hole, she died a very painful death. The pseudo-priest came and stood at the edge of the hole, looking down at her carcass. He shook his head and said "Such a shame." Then he went to the flea market and bought a goat's head to hang in his living room.
When the pseudo-priest's wife saw the stuffed goat head that he had dragged home on the roof of his Chevy Blazer, she was very irate, and understandably so. She told him in no uncertain terms that she would share neither her bed nor her butter knife with him for well over a fortnight. In fact, she claimed, for all the good it would do him, he might as well take his sorry behind out to the stables and sleep in the stall that had been abandoned by the leprous old bay pony the previous May. Then, realizing what a run-on that threat had been, she shooed him out of the house and took away his ballpoint pens.
Once he was gone she returned to preparing dinner, but, since she hated stuffed peppers after all, she decided to order out for pizza instead. As she was picking up the phone to call the pizza parlor, a man came to her door and handed her a peer edit dated February 10, 1932. She looked down at the paper in disgust, then rolled it up and hit the delivery boy with it repeatedly, in the backside, until he started to bleed. Smiling a smile of grim satisfaction, she gave his skinny body a swift kick with her very sensible shoe. He scampered away. She got the big old Shotgun O' Science down from its resting place above the mantel and shotgunned him down as he scurried down the path. Then she fed his remains to the Bantam chickens, except for his heart, which she cooked and ate, and she liked it, because it was good, and because it was the dude's heart.
Go back home.