Dear Fellow Seekers of Truth and Genius:
I have spent today seeking my bliss at the Temple of Heaven Park. I was hoping that the great unknown would speak to me through the sanctity of this space. And friends, that it did. I finally have an answer for those ghouls at the Pacific Lutheran paperwork factory, who demand my declaration of genre forthwith. I am, without doubt, a writer of memoir, discovered at the very moment I was shat upon by a fortuitous pigeon. I began immediately to chronicle the many exceptional moments of my life upon this earth. So vigorously did I write, switching between right and left hands to better exercise my genius, my fingers have curled into a permanent writer's cramp — as you can see by the below photo.
Tonight I plan to steal the human's vat of Tiger Balm, and ease my weary instruments. Tink has volunteered to keep watch during the heist, though I'm not sure how much help she'll be, as she gives off the strangest glow after dark. I fear she may be radioactive, but her beauty is irresistible. I've been donning the human's sunscreen before bed each night as a precaution, though that too is — to use her sophomoric language — a bitch to acquire. The woman is completely nonplussed by skin care regimes, yet hoards the toiletries like a mongoose. I pray that Operation Tiger's Balme (pronounced with the French ending, of course) does not end in my untimely demise. But if it does, I ask that you, my dutiful followers, publish my memoir as a posthumous work. I can already see that it will be an essential text for many generations of Naked people to come. I will not leave them to stir in the dark as I have done.
With an impending sense of both greatness and doom,
Naked Man
No comments:
Post a Comment