Monday, May 21, 2007

I just called to say...

I haven't capsized and bumped my head on a rock while escaping from a team of crazed mad-axe murderers in a canoe, and then washed up in my artistically-dripping state and fetchingly-bedraggled (maybe some discreet skin showing) state on some exotic shore.

Nor has my charmingly amnesiac self then been discovered by a brooding, darkly handsome hero with a tortured past and secrets of his own which may uncannily eventually be revealed to bear some relation to my own problems, either directly, in the form of a common link with my own slavering mad-axe murderers (they killed his hamster) or in a burst of artistic inspiration, something on a more emotional-healing-type plane. For example, a dread fear of two-man canoes originally caused by a tragic accident which was by no means his fault, but for which he blames himself, and a consequent hatred and poor opinion of women who associate with canoes (the hussies).

In any case, said hero has not been mesmerized by my unearthly beauty, and carried me to his secret island paradise, far from from the madding-axe-murderer crowd. I have not looked adorably feminine in his only dress shirt and bare feet, nor have I warmed his tortured soul with a fantastic meal concoted from a packet of instant minestrone, some stale prunes and two tins of cheap lager. Alternatively, I have not been sweetly incompetent in the kitchen either: accidentally burning his only saucepan and thus forcing him to cook freshly-caught fish on a rock which I then refuse to eat on the grounds that I can't bear to eat the sweet iddle fishy-wishies.

I did knock over the sausage of a man of mature years in army surplus and a cowboy hat with a very long tail of some furry animal, though.

Life is hard.


fiveandfour said...

Well, just so long as you didn't run into a handsome guy with blonde hair on a darkened street who somehow hypnotized you (even though it was dark and very difficult to even see the bastard) then lured you closer with soft words spoken with a touch of an ancient accent, soothing you as though you were a frightened rabbit as he leaned closer, then even closer towards you while you stood frozen and unable to move, finally making contact with your neck, piercing the skin and thrilling you with a burst of pleasure, only to have Mr. Blonde yanked back by some other man, tall with dark hair, *just* when it was getting good, and so long as Mr. Raven didn't send off Mr. Blonde with harsh words spoken in some foreign language you couldn't understand while you stood there, woozy and confused, eventually buckling at the knees, but caught just in time by Sir Raven who took you back to his castle where he cursed Sebastian for a fool, ripped into his wrist with his fangs, then forced you to drink his blood, which was at first really disgusting, but then warm and spicy and marvelously good, while he stroked your hair with his other hand, the one with the intriguiging ruby ring, and sighed in a way that suggested everything you ever thought was true about the world was about to be turned upside down, then I suppose life really *is* good and knocking over a sausage is puny in comparison.

And inquiring minds want to know: did you beat a hasty retreat after the sausage-knocking-over or offer to buy the Soldier-of-Fortune/Cowboy/Davy Crocket admirer another sausage so you could have a chance to get a better gander (of horrified fascination) at the furry animal tail?

EvilAuntiePeril said...


Actually, I ended up in a singsong with the expansively midriffed cowboy. I'll try to dig out some photos of the hat, though.