Why am I so ridiculously good looking?
This is the question that has been gnawing at my very being for some time now. Why (and how) am I so ridiculously good looking? Let us search my childhood for answers.
At age 5 I met a centaur. His name was Josephine. Yes, Josephine. Yes, he was a male centaur. And yes, he was very sensitive about this so, please, don't make fun of him. Please, also, do not try to shorten his name to Jo or Joseph, to this he takes much offense. In fact, that reminds me of a story. If it doesn't bother you too much, I think I will take the liberty to digress. It was shortly after I had met Josephine, and we were meeting on the grassy knoll as we had done several times before. I got there a little early, hoping to catch some z's before Joesphine showed up. It was one of those days, I'm sure you know the ones about which I am talking- the sun was ever so slightly beyond vertical, slowing starting its long journey home, the sky was the blue of a clown's fluffy buttons, and the only cloud in the sky was puffier than the michelin guy and hung in the sky, far off, like a feather hangs in the air, catching tiny puff of wind after tiny puff of wind, relying on each to keep it alive. So there I was, sitting in the grass, my eyes growing heavy, wishing simultaneously to stay conscious to enjoy the day but also that the sand man would make an early trip just for me, when out of the corner of my rapidly shutting eye I saw what looked like two pair of horse legs. I turned and was surprised to see Josephine standing there. But he was not looking at me. He was looking off into the distance, staring at the single scraggly tree, the out-of-place one that sat more or less in the middle of the expansive prarie that lay opposite the grassy knoll. My first instinct was to shout to Josephine, I was so excited to see him. But I paused, I'm not entirely sure why, but I did. Instead I peered off into the distance, to try to see at what Josephine was looking. There, standing by the scraggly tree stood two men, dressed in plain suits. They stood out like I do when I walk into Hot Topic. But I digress from my digression. So there stood these two men. The temperature was pleasant, but even so, they looked very uncomfortable standing there. Just as I was thinking it would be nice to bring them some water (from where I would get said water is beyond me, but the thought crossed my mind nonetheless) when Josephine started walking slowly toward the two men. Take special note here, because this was very unusual. The only times I had seen Jospehine walk were when we were together, walking together. When approaching he would always arrive in a canter- never a gallop, never a trot, and most definately never a walk. But there he was, walking toward these two men. Now, before I proceed I much explain something to you. At his heart, at the very core of Josephine, there is a good soul, a good centaur. Do not forget this. We are all human (or at least partly) and, as such, we all have our faults. Even Josephine. But really, he had a good heart. But back to the two men in suits. Josephine finally reached them, but after only a minute or two I saw him take off in a gallop in one direction, and the two men in another. Something was very wrong. I should mention that by now the sun had traced its arc to the point where it was starting to take on a reddish glow, like a far-off forest fire, one that you can tell is a forest fire, and can tell is red, but far away enough that the complex hues are indistinguishable. And that little cloud had suddenly become a much more menacing prescence above my head. I felt small, like an ant lost at night in a forest of grass and dandelions. I didnt know what to do, so I went home, sobbing. The next few days were miserable. Nothing but rain outside, nothing but rain inside. On the third day I pulled on my yellow rubber raincoat and headed back to the knoll, hoping to find Josephine. But alas, I was unsuccessful. Again the next day I ventured out. Still no luck. I even searched by the scraggly tree. All I saw there were hoof prints, protected from the rain by the few leaves hanging onto the dying tree. I returned again, day after day. But Josephine never showed.
Many years later, when I had grown, gone to college, and made a name for myself in the business community, after I had completely forgotten about Joesphine, I found myself wandering around my favorite bookstore. This bookstore was hidden in the heart of downtown- I stood surrounded by hundreds of novels, surrounded by hundred-story buildings, surrounded by a sprawling metropolis of 8 million, surrounded by a seaboard that stretched so far and was so bright at night that from earth the moon was barely visible, and from space you could see a clear outline of the area from the no longer luminous heavenly sphere- the moon. Feeling a swoosh from behind me and smelling the sweet flower-like aroma of a woman who had just prepared for a night on the town. Turning quickly I saw not the rapid movement of a high-cut skirt, as I had expected, but rather I was confronted by a wall of the most beautiful leather bound books I had ever seen in my entire life. The book was called "The Rise and Fall of a Centaurian Drug Lord." It was written by Josephine. Unbelieveingly, I grabbed a copy and flipped it open to that pointless page about the author that you find in every over-priced book nowadays. I simply could not believe it. There, from within the pages, staring out at me was none other than Josephine. Bitter tears still in my eyes I managed to pay for the book, but sprinted out of the store with it before the sales clerk could even offer me my change. Reaching my penthouse sweet I collapsed on my bed, exhausted, disillusioned, and hopeless.
I don't know what made me, but when I awoke the next morning I found the strength to sit up and read Joesphine's book. Inside I found the secret and strife-filled life of Josephine: drug lord. From its 801 glossy pages I learned that what I had seen that day back on the knoll was what was to be his last deal, but it went bad. The two men in suits made the mistake of laughing at Josephine's name. He became angry and threatened to bail. The two men had pulled guns, but one thought he saw police moving in, so all parties ran. After that Josephine went into hiding for 20 years, fled the country, and published his book. But nowhere in its 801 pages did he make a single mention of me, poor me, the youth he befriended. Stunned, I closed the book and lay down, presumeably to die.
Three days later, my mother showed up at my door. Thank goodness for that, she saved my life. Fearing for my health, but uncertain as to why I was in such poor shape, she dragged me out to my parent's country house. I spent a week pitying myself, taking long walks with no particular aim. On that 7th day my walk led me (subconsciously, mind you) to that old grassy knoll. I sat down and cried again. I felt relieved, like I had been freed of a burden. Standing up joyously, I sprinted off into the prarie, still not paying any heed as to where I was running. Winded, I pulled up to a stop by that fateful tree. I leaned against it for support, I bent ever so slightly under my weight, groaning as all old, dry trees do. Bending over slightly, I let my hand slide down the trunk. It toughed something unnatural, not smooth like the bark of the tree. Looking I saw a heart with two names carved into it: Josephine + Br...n. Even with eyes filled with tears saltier than the dead sea, eyes puffed like bee stings, and a throat choaked as though it was my last breath, I could make out the cold silvery form of three bullets, sunk in the wood like the nails in Christ's hands.
At age 5 I met a centaur. His name was Josephine. Yes, Josephine. Yes, he was a male centaur. And yes, he was very sensitive about this so, please, don't make fun of him. Please, also, do not try to shorten his name to Jo or Joseph, to this he takes much offense. In fact, that reminds me of a story. If it doesn't bother you too much, I think I will take the liberty to digress. It was shortly after I had met Josephine, and we were meeting on the grassy knoll as we had done several times before. I got there a little early, hoping to catch some z's before Joesphine showed up. It was one of those days, I'm sure you know the ones about which I am talking- the sun was ever so slightly beyond vertical, slowing starting its long journey home, the sky was the blue of a clown's fluffy buttons, and the only cloud in the sky was puffier than the michelin guy and hung in the sky, far off, like a feather hangs in the air, catching tiny puff of wind after tiny puff of wind, relying on each to keep it alive. So there I was, sitting in the grass, my eyes growing heavy, wishing simultaneously to stay conscious to enjoy the day but also that the sand man would make an early trip just for me, when out of the corner of my rapidly shutting eye I saw what looked like two pair of horse legs. I turned and was surprised to see Josephine standing there. But he was not looking at me. He was looking off into the distance, staring at the single scraggly tree, the out-of-place one that sat more or less in the middle of the expansive prarie that lay opposite the grassy knoll. My first instinct was to shout to Josephine, I was so excited to see him. But I paused, I'm not entirely sure why, but I did. Instead I peered off into the distance, to try to see at what Josephine was looking. There, standing by the scraggly tree stood two men, dressed in plain suits. They stood out like I do when I walk into Hot Topic. But I digress from my digression. So there stood these two men. The temperature was pleasant, but even so, they looked very uncomfortable standing there. Just as I was thinking it would be nice to bring them some water (from where I would get said water is beyond me, but the thought crossed my mind nonetheless) when Josephine started walking slowly toward the two men. Take special note here, because this was very unusual. The only times I had seen Jospehine walk were when we were together, walking together. When approaching he would always arrive in a canter- never a gallop, never a trot, and most definately never a walk. But there he was, walking toward these two men. Now, before I proceed I much explain something to you. At his heart, at the very core of Josephine, there is a good soul, a good centaur. Do not forget this. We are all human (or at least partly) and, as such, we all have our faults. Even Josephine. But really, he had a good heart. But back to the two men in suits. Josephine finally reached them, but after only a minute or two I saw him take off in a gallop in one direction, and the two men in another. Something was very wrong. I should mention that by now the sun had traced its arc to the point where it was starting to take on a reddish glow, like a far-off forest fire, one that you can tell is a forest fire, and can tell is red, but far away enough that the complex hues are indistinguishable. And that little cloud had suddenly become a much more menacing prescence above my head. I felt small, like an ant lost at night in a forest of grass and dandelions. I didnt know what to do, so I went home, sobbing. The next few days were miserable. Nothing but rain outside, nothing but rain inside. On the third day I pulled on my yellow rubber raincoat and headed back to the knoll, hoping to find Josephine. But alas, I was unsuccessful. Again the next day I ventured out. Still no luck. I even searched by the scraggly tree. All I saw there were hoof prints, protected from the rain by the few leaves hanging onto the dying tree. I returned again, day after day. But Josephine never showed.
Many years later, when I had grown, gone to college, and made a name for myself in the business community, after I had completely forgotten about Joesphine, I found myself wandering around my favorite bookstore. This bookstore was hidden in the heart of downtown- I stood surrounded by hundreds of novels, surrounded by hundred-story buildings, surrounded by a sprawling metropolis of 8 million, surrounded by a seaboard that stretched so far and was so bright at night that from earth the moon was barely visible, and from space you could see a clear outline of the area from the no longer luminous heavenly sphere- the moon. Feeling a swoosh from behind me and smelling the sweet flower-like aroma of a woman who had just prepared for a night on the town. Turning quickly I saw not the rapid movement of a high-cut skirt, as I had expected, but rather I was confronted by a wall of the most beautiful leather bound books I had ever seen in my entire life. The book was called "The Rise and Fall of a Centaurian Drug Lord." It was written by Josephine. Unbelieveingly, I grabbed a copy and flipped it open to that pointless page about the author that you find in every over-priced book nowadays. I simply could not believe it. There, from within the pages, staring out at me was none other than Josephine. Bitter tears still in my eyes I managed to pay for the book, but sprinted out of the store with it before the sales clerk could even offer me my change. Reaching my penthouse sweet I collapsed on my bed, exhausted, disillusioned, and hopeless.
I don't know what made me, but when I awoke the next morning I found the strength to sit up and read Joesphine's book. Inside I found the secret and strife-filled life of Josephine: drug lord. From its 801 glossy pages I learned that what I had seen that day back on the knoll was what was to be his last deal, but it went bad. The two men in suits made the mistake of laughing at Josephine's name. He became angry and threatened to bail. The two men had pulled guns, but one thought he saw police moving in, so all parties ran. After that Josephine went into hiding for 20 years, fled the country, and published his book. But nowhere in its 801 pages did he make a single mention of me, poor me, the youth he befriended. Stunned, I closed the book and lay down, presumeably to die.
Three days later, my mother showed up at my door. Thank goodness for that, she saved my life. Fearing for my health, but uncertain as to why I was in such poor shape, she dragged me out to my parent's country house. I spent a week pitying myself, taking long walks with no particular aim. On that 7th day my walk led me (subconsciously, mind you) to that old grassy knoll. I sat down and cried again. I felt relieved, like I had been freed of a burden. Standing up joyously, I sprinted off into the prarie, still not paying any heed as to where I was running. Winded, I pulled up to a stop by that fateful tree. I leaned against it for support, I bent ever so slightly under my weight, groaning as all old, dry trees do. Bending over slightly, I let my hand slide down the trunk. It toughed something unnatural, not smooth like the bark of the tree. Looking I saw a heart with two names carved into it: Josephine + Br...n. Even with eyes filled with tears saltier than the dead sea, eyes puffed like bee stings, and a throat choaked as though it was my last breath, I could make out the cold silvery form of three bullets, sunk in the wood like the nails in Christ's hands.