So...I'm a little freaked out. I was cleaning my bedroom last night when I found this photo under my bed, positioned directly beneath my heart. It was wrapped in a piece of soft velvet, and bound securely with a woven lock of hair. Tiffany is utterly convinced that the hair is mine, as it matches both the rich brown color and the baby soft texture. It could only have been collected from my pillow. This poses quite a conundrum for me as I honestly cannot now know if I am friends with "Extremely John" because he is who he is, or because I am in the clutches of some dark spell paid for in blood. All I know for sure is that when he is not around... I miss him. Lord what shall I do?
2 comments:
Clearly an exorcism must be performed. I suggest bringing the hair, a chicken head, and of course some grain alcohol to tonight's festivities, and for god sake don't show this picture again.
What can I say Philip, I know I'm no Bode Miller, I have to come to terms with that, so I have resorted to Voodoo. It's a step down, I know, but it was either that or hit the slopes and train like a maniac in an impossible bid to out ski and out shine Bode- I simply don't have time for that. Much easier, thought I, to pick up a pen and a large sign and express myself in a way Bode never could. What hurts is that you immediately took the opportunity to announce my lack of Bode-ness by posting my heart-felt tribute for the world to see. You are cruel in ways I don't think one could even blame on a closet penchant for tequila.
Post a Comment