My Story (Proscribed By Me)
It was a dark and stormy night, wherein the white rain marched down from the sky like determined soldiers towards battle, wielding their deadly machine-guns full of wind and cold. And the darkness . . . Oh, the darkness, how it engulfed my soul, swallowing it up like a murky pit of doomed despair and desperate doom. The snowflakes of rain, like the tears of an angel who fell down while riding a bicycle – blue, with tassels on the handlebars -- and scraped her knee right something awful, pelted against the window of my office, over and over and over; I wondered when it would stop, when the cessation of the torture of such rainy wetness would occur. It was hopeless, I decided, so I opened my drawer and extracted from the contents of said container built within the structure of aforealluded desk a stark, black, shiny bottle of Bourbon. Bourbon: truly, my only friend . . . Except for that guy, Steve or Nick or whatever: he’s pretty cool, we hang out, play Nintendo and shit.
There I sat, weak and weary, then there came a knock, such a knocking, upon my door; like the thundering of a thousand, uh, big things all . . . Falling down, it echoed around my office, rebounding and repeating through my head. Knock, knock, knock, knock . . . Knock, knock, knock . . . I carefully held the shot-glass I had produced from my desk, delicately gripping its tender sides, being sure not to apply too much pressure yet still enough to bring the glass sweet deliverance from the harsh, cruel fates of the electromagnetic gravitational well that surrounds this green globe of ourn (It’s a harsh existence, the life of a shot-glass). I’m not entirely sure what did not compel me to answer that knock, what force made it so that I -- instead of rising to the challenge and striving for the Gold, per se -- sat there, idly tumbling my drink about in my hand. Some would, one day, say that it was due to a traumatic, depressing childhood full of anguish and tears, turmoil and what is generally agreed upon as being the opposite of positive. Whatever the case may be, I didn’t answer that bloody door.
“Hello?” lilted a voice, penetrating through the hard, stiff wood of the portal to my domain, thrusting its influence deep and unstoppably forthcoming into my ears; it was soft, melodic, perhaps even musical or, in some countries, round – others, square – surely such a sound could only be attached to the epitome of the vision of beauty. I tongued the cold, bitter liquid in my mouth, moving it in a slow, intentional, circular pattern, daydreaming about who may very well be standing outside my door, at this very moment, desiring – passionately – entrance. With a start, however, I thought to myself, “Oh, shit, my colon is about to explode forth like some deranged, brown version of the Niagara Falls!”
It was then that I knew that I would forever be locked in a fearsome, raging conflict of man versus himself, man versus nature, and man versus time. I harkened back to my past, to the memories that lurked in the furthest reaches of the recesses of memory, to those events that lead to such epic journey and change so long ago, and hoped that with the aid of these deadly ghosts of olden times I would triumph, after a necessary amount of elongated dialogue and punching stuff.
She walked into my office – nay, into my life -- with those luscious hips and that pert chest, clad in the most striking blue dress I had seen since that last striking blue dress I had seen, and I knew that I would be a changed man from that point onward. I knew that I would henceforth always be . . . A walrus.
There I sat, weak and weary, then there came a knock, such a knocking, upon my door; like the thundering of a thousand, uh, big things all . . . Falling down, it echoed around my office, rebounding and repeating through my head. Knock, knock, knock, knock . . . Knock, knock, knock . . . I carefully held the shot-glass I had produced from my desk, delicately gripping its tender sides, being sure not to apply too much pressure yet still enough to bring the glass sweet deliverance from the harsh, cruel fates of the electromagnetic gravitational well that surrounds this green globe of ourn (It’s a harsh existence, the life of a shot-glass). I’m not entirely sure what did not compel me to answer that knock, what force made it so that I -- instead of rising to the challenge and striving for the Gold, per se -- sat there, idly tumbling my drink about in my hand. Some would, one day, say that it was due to a traumatic, depressing childhood full of anguish and tears, turmoil and what is generally agreed upon as being the opposite of positive. Whatever the case may be, I didn’t answer that bloody door.
“Hello?” lilted a voice, penetrating through the hard, stiff wood of the portal to my domain, thrusting its influence deep and unstoppably forthcoming into my ears; it was soft, melodic, perhaps even musical or, in some countries, round – others, square – surely such a sound could only be attached to the epitome of the vision of beauty. I tongued the cold, bitter liquid in my mouth, moving it in a slow, intentional, circular pattern, daydreaming about who may very well be standing outside my door, at this very moment, desiring – passionately – entrance. With a start, however, I thought to myself, “Oh, shit, my colon is about to explode forth like some deranged, brown version of the Niagara Falls!”
It was then that I knew that I would forever be locked in a fearsome, raging conflict of man versus himself, man versus nature, and man versus time. I harkened back to my past, to the memories that lurked in the furthest reaches of the recesses of memory, to those events that lead to such epic journey and change so long ago, and hoped that with the aid of these deadly ghosts of olden times I would triumph, after a necessary amount of elongated dialogue and punching stuff.
She walked into my office – nay, into my life -- with those luscious hips and that pert chest, clad in the most striking blue dress I had seen since that last striking blue dress I had seen, and I knew that I would be a changed man from that point onward. I knew that I would henceforth always be . . . A walrus.
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
9:30 AM
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