Sunday, January 31, 2016
Three - Incorrect Graft
Friends of mine, of which I have many (such as my best friend Kev, my little brother Gav, my older sister Dev, or even one of my old school chums like Liv, Sav or Fev), know something about me that is a thing about me that they know is a thing that they can rely on to be a thing of mine - and that's that I don't like to dilly dally.
This is for many reasons, such as:
- I don't know what 'dilly' means.
- I don't know what 'dally' means.
- I don't know what 'dilly dally' means.
- I don't like things I don't know the definition of.
- I don't like wasting time unnecessarily by messing around in a dawdling fashion resulting in time being treated idly leading to a lingering sense of delay and ultimately lallygagging. And
- I don't know what lallygagging means.
But another thing my many friends will tell you, (friends like my best friend Kev, my Dad Puv, my cousin Aev, or even my best fiend Kev), is that I don't like things that amble along as if there is some sense of intentional avoidance or reluctance to get to the next thing.
It's one of the reasons Kev knows he's an asshole, because he's been far from reliable in this regard over the course of our friendship.
Like one time I cut my foot while trying to carve my toe nails into the shapes of my favorite guitar models, and so I called up Kev and asked if he'd bring me over a selection of skin grafts in various skin tones, so that I could match the closest one up just right before glueing it over the wound (I didn't want weird looking feet, obviously) and it took him nearly three hours! I'd realized I'd actually just spilled my Fender Telecaster Red Nail Polish almost two hours before he showed up. AND he didn't even bring any black skin grafts saying 'I knew it didn't match yours'. That racist. Then he wanted to know if he could have a go playing one of my guitars! What a dick.
So when he has actually cut himself, albeit in a stupid 'I said fork not knife you dick' way, there was no way I was going to dillydally on my goals here.
But then, disastrously, after looking already for a while, I'd found nothing but disappointment in the cloakroom. Literally zero else.
But If you thought that just because I said what I found in there was literally nothing but disappointment, and that this means that I didn't find anything else in there BUT disappointment in there then you'd be wrong.
Oh and I'm not talking just regular wrong. I'm talking really wrong. And really wrong is barely a finger print off being dead wrong (depending on how thorough the forensic team on site were). Which is to say that, oh yeah, you better believe that you are wrong. Really stupidly wrong. Wrong like a fire pit in an ice factory, which I guess is probably more wasteful than wrong, but wastefulness is wrong! Wrong like a train built to the moon, which would be more miraculous than wrong, but miracles are weird and often tied to religions and cults and miracle workers, all of which themselves are wrong. Wrong like the time Kev thought I'd buy chocolate off his daughter to help pay for surgery for the kid at her school to get her eyesight back. I mean school kids should not be performing surgery on other school kids, that shit is WRONG. Seriously, try it on a old person on a donkey or something first at least, and if you're going to buy a donkey with my chocolate money I want a ride BEFORE you fuck up its eyes!
So yeah, I found literally nothing in the cloakroom, but I also found other stuff in the cloakroom. Lots of stuff in fact - Disappointment, humiliation, a small spider, that my shoe lace was undone, a musky odor, an eyelash in my eye, and even more, but none of those were what a sought.
I was in there at least fifteen minutes before I gave up. Which is a long time for me. I once spent only twelve minutes looking for a lost kitten. Sure I'd found it after four minutes, but it's the time that counts.
In the cloakroom I looked for what I sought till my little heart nearly gave out (I was born seven months premature so my heart never got to full size. Although my mother had been planning to carry me for fifteen months, so I did only nearly die). Yet despite my searching, today was not to be my day. I didn't find anything remotely interesting in there. No trap doors. No secret passage ways. It was a bust. A horrible bust (the worst kind of bust).
There was only one thing even slightly intriguing that I found in the whole damn cloakroom - An awesome looking, fitting and feeling leather jacket, which I could tell just by looking at would look amazing on me, but I didn't want it. I don't have any girls I'm crushing on to woo with it, I'm totally into exotic girls these days, and there is a supply of them as short as a broken record in this hell hole town.
Oh and there was also the two first class tickets with no name on them to some place called Venezuela, but who can afford hotels and meals in restaurants in this economy?
Oh and there was the safe that was unlocked with the several wads of cash with the sash around them saying 'unmarked, trust me'. No thanks, who needs the pressure of having to make decisions like which awesome thing to buy with wads of untraceable cash?
Fucking cloakroom. I hated it now. It had ended up having three remotely interesting things after I'd said there would only be one, and I hate when the only thing turns into three things, make me look stupid will you numbers? You pricks!
So I stumbled out. Now I just needed to save face. I needed to do something big. Big enough that Kev would forget what I'd promised. I had no idea what it would be, just that it would have to happen... NOW! And I'll tell you this, this thing would lead to things of such size that only a psycho would make you wait to hear more one second longer.
Well I'm NO PSYCHO! So I shall make you wait at least TWO seconds more.
To be furthered*
*Another word for continued, which I'm using now as I used up continued in part one, and there is no way a story as important as the one I'm telling you here shall include any repetition or other delaying tactics, whether for dramatic affect nor any other wonderful literary or story telling device, no way in hell, NO way in heaven, and no way in the afterlife, regardless of ones destination in it, with heaven and hell being the logical options, and any of my friends could tell you that. Probably not my old school chums or family members, all of whom I'm estranged with, but the rest of them for sure.