Life, my friends, is rum.
Yes, life is very, very rum. Imagine a young man of my station, lavished with all the blessings of Nature: eyes grey as gunsteel, hair brown as walnut, body and flesh endowed with the doughy, slightly pudgy form that is the unadulterated delight of every girl; soft to the touch and a joy to caress, leaving for some time the shallow imprint from a laid-upon hand or from the pressure of a firm kiss, as well as providing clear evidence of a refined manner of living, far above the tedious drudgery of the lower classes.
But if I asked you to imagine this same person, the cynosure of a thousand young maiden's eyes, the most sensitive of aesthetes, the most perfectly formed ball of rotundity ever formed by design or by accident, was currently bereft of a lover on this inauspicious day, surely that image would be as incongruous as picturing a slice of toast without chocolate hazelnut spread. "Surely," you would say, "Attempting to keep a girl from you would be as fruitless as trying to restrain a Chihuahua from pouncing upon a porkchop." Yet it is true, every word of it; and as I gaze out upon the cheerless world on this dismal day, idly dipping my fingers into a lightly microwaved bowl of Nutella and mindlessly transferring the liquid bliss to my moistened lips, I cannot help but reflect upon the train of unfortunate accidents which have brought me to this juncture.
There is one day that stands out in particular - the day that I had my first real, mature, passionate, full-fledged longing for a girl; which, incidentally, happened during an anatomy course in college. That last detail is of considerable interest when I recall the letter I later sent to her, into which I poured all of my hopes, fears, doubts, aspirations, anxieties, and rawest emotions. I told her that her hair was as perfect as the softest, most velvety branches of telodendria, a brilliant fan of cauda equina radiating from her scalp; that her eyes reminded one of a delicately placed nucleolus in a magic sea of cytoplasm; that the mere thought of her silky epithelium was enough to engage my cremasteric reflex. These opening lines were unquestionably the greatest verse I have ever composed, wholly without precedent and never equaled since; and it is a tragic loss for humanity and future scholars that I destroyed all copies of this letter in a paroxysm of fury. (While I cannot remember the rest of the missive I sent her, I do have the feeling that it was, although intensely felt, mere doggerel.)
But as deep and genuine as my emotions were, however, I quickly realized that it was not meant to be; as the day after I sent my letter, she began to look at me the same way you would regard a tupperware container filled with nose hairs. I attempted some small consolation by telling myself that she was probably getting her minge rocked by some water polo player anyway; which, in fact, turned out to be the case. And every love interest I have had since then has merely been a slight variation on the same theme - passionate love letter, bitter rejection, minge getting rocked by a water polo player, everything.
Yes, life is very, very rum. Imagine a young man of my station, lavished with all the blessings of Nature: eyes grey as gunsteel, hair brown as walnut, body and flesh endowed with the doughy, slightly pudgy form that is the unadulterated delight of every girl; soft to the touch and a joy to caress, leaving for some time the shallow imprint from a laid-upon hand or from the pressure of a firm kiss, as well as providing clear evidence of a refined manner of living, far above the tedious drudgery of the lower classes.
But if I asked you to imagine this same person, the cynosure of a thousand young maiden's eyes, the most sensitive of aesthetes, the most perfectly formed ball of rotundity ever formed by design or by accident, was currently bereft of a lover on this inauspicious day, surely that image would be as incongruous as picturing a slice of toast without chocolate hazelnut spread. "Surely," you would say, "Attempting to keep a girl from you would be as fruitless as trying to restrain a Chihuahua from pouncing upon a porkchop." Yet it is true, every word of it; and as I gaze out upon the cheerless world on this dismal day, idly dipping my fingers into a lightly microwaved bowl of Nutella and mindlessly transferring the liquid bliss to my moistened lips, I cannot help but reflect upon the train of unfortunate accidents which have brought me to this juncture.
There is one day that stands out in particular - the day that I had my first real, mature, passionate, full-fledged longing for a girl; which, incidentally, happened during an anatomy course in college. That last detail is of considerable interest when I recall the letter I later sent to her, into which I poured all of my hopes, fears, doubts, aspirations, anxieties, and rawest emotions. I told her that her hair was as perfect as the softest, most velvety branches of telodendria, a brilliant fan of cauda equina radiating from her scalp; that her eyes reminded one of a delicately placed nucleolus in a magic sea of cytoplasm; that the mere thought of her silky epithelium was enough to engage my cremasteric reflex. These opening lines were unquestionably the greatest verse I have ever composed, wholly without precedent and never equaled since; and it is a tragic loss for humanity and future scholars that I destroyed all copies of this letter in a paroxysm of fury. (While I cannot remember the rest of the missive I sent her, I do have the feeling that it was, although intensely felt, mere doggerel.)
But as deep and genuine as my emotions were, however, I quickly realized that it was not meant to be; as the day after I sent my letter, she began to look at me the same way you would regard a tupperware container filled with nose hairs. I attempted some small consolation by telling myself that she was probably getting her minge rocked by some water polo player anyway; which, in fact, turned out to be the case. And every love interest I have had since then has merely been a slight variation on the same theme - passionate love letter, bitter rejection, minge getting rocked by a water polo player, everything.