I had my intestines vasectomied that day. It was a grand day, the type of day you just want to jump out of your skin and bury your pink carcass in the dirt. The day was cold and wet, but pleasant, the type of pleasant that makes you want to puke, that 'have a nice day' sort of pleasant. I was flipping through the dictionary, looking for the word 'khkhkhkhkheeeeeeeepw' (and wasn't at all surprised to find it under 'N' between the words 'Negligee' and 'Curator') when this strikingly wide young female approached me and tweaked my nose like it was asparagus.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't MaryJulie3, and how are we this fine (but wet and cold) day." "Yes" "Well, that's good."
And I promptly gave her a flying tackle and beat her to death with a blade of grass I had found lying one day by my father's favourite book '101 Uses For A Dead Kitten, And Why You Would Want To'. She was much too pleasant for anyone's liking. Now to resume my tale of decadence and greenness, I suddenly found myself a frog. God! Did I ever feel like a venus fly trap. I made myself dive into the murky depths of the jello mould my son had made for me from clay during his 'Rodent years'. Suddenly, I died.