|Failed Date (standard:Creative non-fiction, 738 words)|
|Author: Alixinder||Added: Sep 18 2005||Views/Reads: 1882/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A crazy man somehow scores a date with a supermodel...|
Her exquisitly beautiful life carriage had the most ideal features and proportions; quite stunning to lay (eyes) upon I must say. Continued later again.,._,.,_.,. She then crept upon me like a hungry dolphin preying on live food; just the cutest little look of optimistic expectation and anticipation for a contrived event after an exciting journey. Then one thing lead to another, and you know. Naw, I'm just playin' man, I wouldn't leave you hangin like that. So anyway, she was like, "Who's motorcarriage is that resting in your pantelonies?" I had, at that time, answered her question as confidently as a steak with lots of seasoning, but hasn't been cooked yet in these certain words, "Uh,like,they are, I me a n, i t , w w a s uh, mine. Yeah, uh, it's mine. Yeah." As the anticipation, expectation and that other big word started running out of her ears and nose and down her face, all those letters spilled onto my f*c*i*g carpet that I fell in love with yesterday and spellt, "oeapxntptIeimccItisapmtaItoinon". I could not for my life, understand what she meant by that. Then I heard her speak softly these words in her little dolphin voice she has, "You're ass isn't going anywhere." And she walked to the bathroom, I think, to get ready or something. I just stood there, chillin, and when Hannukuh came pounding on my door seemingly without any mother to teach it manners, I used the effective conclusion that since she has been getting ready for two days, three months and a like a whole entire year, I should open the door leading to the room for bath activities where she resided. I firmly grasped the rusty door spinner thing, t h en I t u r n ed it, a ll t he wa y around a couple of times, and I YANKed on the door as fast as I could. After I stood up again, there was a small kitty cat sitting at the front of a well-lit square tunnel with doors running away, down the sides, and this inparticular kitten was special, because she had something all other cats always did not ever have every time I met them. Mrs. McFrackle, (she said her name to me during a conversation I had with her) is special because she had a shiny red milk lid. This lid, that Allysonyu McFrackle bore, had a bunch of lines on the inside walls that were highly intriguing to the touch. When I got bored with it, though, I gave it back to her. WOW! This special kittie can sleep with her eyes open! (I've never met a pretty ketty who slumbers alertly) This is some talent! I shall sell your talent, and I'll split the green with you. I'll give you thirty-eight percent, and I'll take the other sixteen percent. We'll make dollars, and dollars! I picked her up and carried her with compassion by her strong, stiff tail all the way down the tunnel with doors, and through a window I may have broken earlier, and down a few flights of walls until I hit the ground really hard. As I laid on the comfy sidewalk with Mx. Peaxley?,(I forgot her name real fast...) I didn't even care about green paper anymore; as me and my most favorite companion for this time the sun shines coexisted in such a euphoric inANImate manner. Neither of us moved a muscle for months. Paradiso! I would trade my individually unique ability to process air in my body for that couple of months a million times over. After that, I would get bored and want to skate.(fliptrick) I want things in my life. Like an old crayon drawing from a person I don't know, and a basketball. dribble . . . is all this is. All of it. Take it in an ergonomically created ball, and heave the mound of garbage out the window that guy broke so he can read this and think a thought or two about his life's spiraling direction. But not first without a necessitated slovakian handwriting lesson. When all tasks have been completed successfully, you may only then, pull the bolt action back until a golden death rocket falls into breech, then drop the scope's T right onto his confused cranium, and you may do as you are told by the louder, stronger voice yelling in your head. decisions, decisions... Tweet
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