Post by Jack of Blades on Jan 24, 2007 20:23:26 GMT -5
Water.
Water.
Air.
Light.
The invader is clutching onto my shoulders with motherly resolve pulling me from the waters. He looks me in the eyes expecting some sort of intimate connection for his saving of my life. I don't bother. It is not as if it took a herculean effort to pitch and draw my body from the cyclone flow that is my bathtub.
"How come each morning since I've been here, I've had to rescue you from drowning yourself?"
"How come each morning you've been here, you have acheived the incredible objective of catching a glimpse at my naked body?"
"Does it matter? It's not like I'm enjoying it. You've got a little too much to hold onto...and I've just got the think to help you shed a few pounds before the match. I've brought it in along with some towels."
After drying myself off, I enter my living room to rapid applause from the anomalous adviser. Despite walking as if I were demonstrating how a poorly crafted robot would, I feel safe. I feel at ease in my clingfilm symbiote that has assimlated the majority of my epidermis. Although I had my concerns in dressing entirely in kitchenware, it seems to have done what it was intended for instigating my body temperature's sudden rise as small puddles of perspiration glue themselves to my body's geography.
"You must feel like a pig in a blanket?"
"I feel like a potential heavyweight champion covered in cellophane."
"Oh well. We'll soon have you fighting fit for the match."
"I think I am fighting fit. Hence the reason why I've been promoted to my current state."
"State of having yourself wrapped in plastic dressing?"
"State of contending for the Wrestling Championship Federation belt."
"Yeah, but in honesty, it's not you being fighting fit that has got you so far. It's your hair."
I remove a card from the deck I've been keeping hidden from prying vantage points. I draw a single card and launch it elegantly into the top hat. I have been repeating this mechanism every time the invader has irritated me with his repeated attempts at launching my career into its already impressive plateau and general satisfaction. A deck of cards is comprised of fifty-two. This deck I have now has twelve.
"My hair is the reason for my unparralled acclaim and warranted praise?"
"Yes. You're like Goliath."
"I think you mean 'Harry' who often frequented with 'The Hendersons.' And besides, surely my eclectic matwork, supreme vernacular and enigmatic psyche has some correlation with my career?"
"It's all about the hair. Which is why I've booked you an appointment with this righteous stylist tomorrow down eighteenth. I've also taken the liberty of making you a time for the resident therapist tomorrow."
"Another student of Freud?"
"I am sorry but this behavior it just isn't normal. The routines. The cards in the hat. The things having to be precise. And after you launched those South American fondexes I hid in your sandwiches at my skull, I thought that this was the best way for you to get help."
He leaves the room after turning off the air ventilation cooling me down. I want to throw all remaining eleven cards into position. I don't because doing so would result in a cataclysmic series of events that progress through causation to give me scabies. So I just remain in the chair, waiting for the WCF to look at their newcomer prodigy covered in transparent foil sweating his testes off.
Water.
Air.
Light.
The invader is clutching onto my shoulders with motherly resolve pulling me from the waters. He looks me in the eyes expecting some sort of intimate connection for his saving of my life. I don't bother. It is not as if it took a herculean effort to pitch and draw my body from the cyclone flow that is my bathtub.
"How come each morning since I've been here, I've had to rescue you from drowning yourself?"
"How come each morning you've been here, you have acheived the incredible objective of catching a glimpse at my naked body?"
"Does it matter? It's not like I'm enjoying it. You've got a little too much to hold onto...and I've just got the think to help you shed a few pounds before the match. I've brought it in along with some towels."
After drying myself off, I enter my living room to rapid applause from the anomalous adviser. Despite walking as if I were demonstrating how a poorly crafted robot would, I feel safe. I feel at ease in my clingfilm symbiote that has assimlated the majority of my epidermis. Although I had my concerns in dressing entirely in kitchenware, it seems to have done what it was intended for instigating my body temperature's sudden rise as small puddles of perspiration glue themselves to my body's geography.
"You must feel like a pig in a blanket?"
"I feel like a potential heavyweight champion covered in cellophane."
"Oh well. We'll soon have you fighting fit for the match."
"I think I am fighting fit. Hence the reason why I've been promoted to my current state."
"State of having yourself wrapped in plastic dressing?"
"State of contending for the Wrestling Championship Federation belt."
"Yeah, but in honesty, it's not you being fighting fit that has got you so far. It's your hair."
I remove a card from the deck I've been keeping hidden from prying vantage points. I draw a single card and launch it elegantly into the top hat. I have been repeating this mechanism every time the invader has irritated me with his repeated attempts at launching my career into its already impressive plateau and general satisfaction. A deck of cards is comprised of fifty-two. This deck I have now has twelve.
"My hair is the reason for my unparralled acclaim and warranted praise?"
"Yes. You're like Goliath."
"I think you mean 'Harry' who often frequented with 'The Hendersons.' And besides, surely my eclectic matwork, supreme vernacular and enigmatic psyche has some correlation with my career?"
"It's all about the hair. Which is why I've booked you an appointment with this righteous stylist tomorrow down eighteenth. I've also taken the liberty of making you a time for the resident therapist tomorrow."
"Another student of Freud?"
"I am sorry but this behavior it just isn't normal. The routines. The cards in the hat. The things having to be precise. And after you launched those South American fondexes I hid in your sandwiches at my skull, I thought that this was the best way for you to get help."
He leaves the room after turning off the air ventilation cooling me down. I want to throw all remaining eleven cards into position. I don't because doing so would result in a cataclysmic series of events that progress through causation to give me scabies. So I just remain in the chair, waiting for the WCF to look at their newcomer prodigy covered in transparent foil sweating his testes off.
