Gory lent me the Cory Tory, understated like a chain monger of tertiary constraints (whereas secondary constraint leaves restraint to the masses, for lack of a better paradigm). Permanently purposeful is the name of the game, according to most scholars in the vicinity of your traditional eagle-necked–and somewhat tedious–outlook.
Gyp whipped up a stew and toked up a fat one as he decided whether or not to let the winged assortment of fairy trackers in on his Punxsutawney scheme.
Old Thomas Circuitberry had quite the affinity with our carriage lady and wouldn’t stop to pose for minor photography—no matter the monetary reward. The two of them made a habit of heading to the Metropolitan and drinking kool-aid all the way there, unbeknownst to their poor stomachs until it was too late—every single time.
All hell broke loose on a fairly regular basis—on at least 16 separate occasions. I kid you not; those two were so enamored with one another that a romantic tradition greatly overpowered sugar shock (and even the occasional split stomach).
We would observe this behavior and fail to ever remark upon it, satisfied to assume that their brand of love was unique, not to be tampered with for fear of unleashing the stores of karma they’d built up with every passing road trip.
This story is peculiar from a bystander’s point of view, as you undoubtedly noticed, o benevolent keepers of human specimens. Give me a margarita and leave me alone, would ya?
Bless this mess or any mess of equal or lesser value. This coupon may be redeemed at any place where futons are sold. Offer only valid in states south of Minnesota—not including Maryland—and void in any dwellings containing mole people. Individual outlets reserve the right to refuse service to beatniks, as liberties may come unhinged at any second. Consult a pediatrician to confirm the likelihood of contracting Goosebump Barrier Syndrome (GBS), a rare but likely inheritable (especially in your case) disorder caused by spirited debates with overqualified custodians during their smoke/coffee breaks. Additional information may be obtained by trekking across any number of arid climates, though traditional desert climes are highly recommended in this circumstance.
I could have made a good spokesman, eh?
All right, enough is enough. Can I use my arms now?
Leave it to the Amish to make daily life more of a chore than ever before. I don’t know why I had such an itch to live the way my ancestors used to, but I know for certain that they would have picked an easier way to light the house and prepare food–if presented with a choice. I was so spoiled by the modern conveniences afforded to me by science and a free market economy that I failed to see the value of an Amish-esque leap of faith. I’d taken those marvelous comforts for granted as I skittered along my daily schedule, not a minute wasted, making all I could out of a dubious practice.
Eh. I genuinely am relieved that I don’t have to be a part of that ridiculous rat race these days. It was even more of a chore than the labor-intensive Amish regimen. But if I could just make use of my arms, that would make this feel more like vacation than prison. I’m just saying… And could you please dim the lights if that’s at all possible? I don’t ask for much.
Anyway, to simply engage in that dubious practice of selling time for the shackles of currency is one thing, but to embrace such a hectic outlook is a disgrace all of its own.
And that’s exactly where I found myself on the morning where my car broke down on my way to ten soul-crushing hours in the tiny cubicle I call my second home. Calling the tow truck, a horse and buggy rattled past me and I thought, “now here’s the kind of living I can get behind!” So I flagged them down and hopped right in without asking permission. They didn’t even flinch.
I was quickly initiated into their rustic ways, and the first couple weeks were life-altering. After a couple more weeks, I began to grow tired of such a humdrum and back-breaking existence, but was then informed that the contract I signed–which I thought was fishy, but I signed it in good faith–bound me to the Amish lifestyle for the rest of my life.
But now I’m here in this rubber room talking to myself all day long for lack of anything else to do, likely being studied by a combination of the US government and power-hungry extraterrestrials blackmailing Washington into doing their bidding. Which reality is worse? I’ll have to think about it.
God, I really wish I could use my arms.