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Failed Date (standard:Creative non-fiction, 738 words)
Author: AlixinderAdded: Sep 18 2005Views/Reads: 2152/0Story 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...


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