During my tri-weekly masochistic ritual outside my apartment called “leg destruction” – know better as “running” – I discovered a new hex! Or rather, I was assaulted and incapacitated by one. Though natural discovery does take many forms I suppose.
A gentleman about 30 feet away crossed in front of me. I’m not sure which happened first. Because – in a somewhat simultaneous fashion – I hit an air so viscous it might be gaseous sludge and my nose was annihilated as though a team of well-trained pollen had decided to form a military assault squad and make my nostrils their primary target. The sent was far from floral.
No, the scent was… Oh, dear reader. I seem to have hit an empty spot in my mind. And not a spot I’ve allocated for demonic night terrors.
This gentleman was wearing a shirt that – by my estimate – was 50% water. I’m not sure if such a rare clothing article is required to create such an effective defense aura. I would have asked. But I spent too much time choking, searching for a pocket of fresh air.
I’m impressed. I’d venture not a single living thing could get within ten feet of him. I’m even more impressed he could collaborate with an agent to rent an apartment without decimating the entire leasing office.
Does anyone know this hex? Do you dear reader?
As he moved away, my lungs displaced whatever had been inside them. Such a curious and atypical spasm I had, dear reader. These novel moments in life make my leg destruction refreshing.
I can’t imagine the skill required to perform such a feat. Unparalleled. Nigh-impossible.
Once my masochistic ritual was conducted, and the blood oath transacted (Mr. DingleWaddles – my Canada Goose – is a shrewd accountant, and he’ll know when you cheat him), I made my way to the searing shower.
You know, the funny thing is, when I entered the bathroom: I swear I saw my deodorant cowering in fear.
Now, what do you make of that?