Day 81: Fluffing For The Occasion

It was supposed to be a good day, a day free of Ritalin and demonically divine festivities. But no, there was no fixation. The lacquer was lost to the netherworlds in the brushes and drain pipes. Gone to the pillow fibers and gunked up in the nozzle. My hairspray was dry, not moist. Apparently moist is a dirty word reserved for the filthy low-lives that bed before wed or something similar. I say, Calm-It-Down already. Anyway, I was in a pickle. How could I brave the unknown with flying tentacles? I stepped up to the plate. I opened the door and said "hello." I tried to be calm and normal while signing for the package. But as it would inevitably happen on purpose, a whipping tentacle of hair flipped around matrix style and flicked me in the eye. I stood there, my eye paining. Water drooling out all gushing like and some droplets dripped onto the page. I tried to conceal it, the hair, not the tear! so I dropped my head like it lost all it's muscles, handed the clipboard back and retreated inside my dusty broom closet. There's no door, but it works well enough I do think.

Squeal Like A Turkey, Dance Like A Clown.