I want to take you, dear readers, on a journey.
Close your eyes.
Go on, do it. I don't want to hear any of this bitching about how you can't read with your eyes closed. If Anne Sullivan's sick hydrophilic proclivities can teach Helen Keller to speak, spawning generations of low-budget made-for-TV Hallmark movies designed to make lonely 40-somethings cry and yearn for twenty deaf, blind, AND paraplegic babies (but only if God really loves them) of their own, then you can read a few paragraphs with your fucking eyes closed, you pansy.
Jesus.
Are your eyes closed now? Good.
First, I want you to take a deep breath in through your nose. Try to ignore the whistling sound in your right nostril for now; you can dig around and get that impediment out later. Hold it to a count of ten and try not to think of blue skunks.
--Haha! You thought of them anyway, didn't you? Power of suggestion. You totally fell for that. I own you.
...aaaand, exhale through your mouth. Goood.
Now.
I want you to clear your mind. Forget about your stupid best friend John who owes you money; forget the hit you put out on him this morning; forget about that nosy broad from the Planet who keeps poking around with her godforsaken questions. They'll get theirs. Don't you worry.
I want you to picture...
A banshee fucking a hyena.
DON'T OPEN YOUR EYES!!!
Concentrate on the banshee and hyena, and the inexpressibly inhuman vocalizations their copulation is producing. There's a 7.9 scale earthquake happening in San Andreas RIGHT NOW because of their little romp. Cats and dogs' fragile eardrums for 20 miles in all directions are exploding in their heads. It's as though a million voices just cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced.
This is the sound my mother makes when she's laughing. Her level of amusement is usually directly disproportionate to the actual funniness of the thing she finds amusing; I'd write this in equation form for you, but the little-known secret about me is that I'm painfully retarded and any integers exceeding "five" make my neurons commit hara-kiri en masse. It takes a team of paramedics and highly trained specialists to pry me out of fetal position when that happens, and it's very expensive and time-consuming.
So you'll just have to imagine that, too.
Aaaand... open your eyes.
There. Wasn't that relaxing?
Close your eyes.
Go on, do it. I don't want to hear any of this bitching about how you can't read with your eyes closed. If Anne Sullivan's sick hydrophilic proclivities can teach Helen Keller to speak, spawning generations of low-budget made-for-TV Hallmark movies designed to make lonely 40-somethings cry and yearn for twenty deaf, blind, AND paraplegic babies (but only if God really loves them) of their own, then you can read a few paragraphs with your fucking eyes closed, you pansy.
Jesus.
Are your eyes closed now? Good.
First, I want you to take a deep breath in through your nose. Try to ignore the whistling sound in your right nostril for now; you can dig around and get that impediment out later. Hold it to a count of ten and try not to think of blue skunks.
--Haha! You thought of them anyway, didn't you? Power of suggestion. You totally fell for that. I own you.
...aaaand, exhale through your mouth. Goood.
Now.
I want you to clear your mind. Forget about your stupid best friend John who owes you money; forget the hit you put out on him this morning; forget about that nosy broad from the Planet who keeps poking around with her godforsaken questions. They'll get theirs. Don't you worry.
I want you to picture...
A banshee fucking a hyena.
DON'T OPEN YOUR EYES!!!
Concentrate on the banshee and hyena, and the inexpressibly inhuman vocalizations their copulation is producing. There's a 7.9 scale earthquake happening in San Andreas RIGHT NOW because of their little romp. Cats and dogs' fragile eardrums for 20 miles in all directions are exploding in their heads. It's as though a million voices just cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced.
This is the sound my mother makes when she's laughing. Her level of amusement is usually directly disproportionate to the actual funniness of the thing she finds amusing; I'd write this in equation form for you, but the little-known secret about me is that I'm painfully retarded and any integers exceeding "five" make my neurons commit hara-kiri en masse. It takes a team of paramedics and highly trained specialists to pry me out of fetal position when that happens, and it's very expensive and time-consuming.
So you'll just have to imagine that, too.
Aaaand... open your eyes.
There. Wasn't that relaxing?
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
aw, online therapies never work!