silver medal.

maybe i was supposed to be a giant?
i think that's real.
yeah.
otherwise,
why would i have these great big grabby glovely ones
hanging out at the ends of my wrists?
they're obviously for someone who was intended for greater things.
like, just maybe,
all the goodness designed to diffuse throughout an entire
oversized complete person got pulled and pooled by gravity
into just the ends of my arms.
i mean, c'mon-
it would explain why they're so damned long,
and why there're spidermitt monsterpaws dangling at the tips.

no?
but on the really real-
these twin choking jokers,
and their wide-palmed spans,
and their starving stickly stalks?
yes.
they're made for taking,
and for talking,
and for tempting, teasing, tickling, tracing, trapping.....
and most of all,
for devouring whatever they touch.
i'm serious-
my hands have teeth.
metaphoric masticators of all sorts of knots.
from sore backs to messy entanglements,
i've got ten long, gnarled, knobby fingers ready to bite into all of it,
and get a taste of what's in store for us.
ugh.
it's not easy,
not letting them loose to hunt up the things they want.
they're just so hungry.
i mean it.
and there's parts on parts on parts,
so much prey and so much pain
and so many pleasing pokes and prods and pulls and pushes.
neck-napes;
back-smalls;
hip-handles;
those are the part and parcel of what i'm prestidigitatingly digesting.
c'mon.
that's expert.
anyway,
it's all about the hands, kids.
all the best secrets are always in the hands.
true story.
***********
ummmm,
but, like,
just HOW bad at girls am i?
holy F*ing sh!t, neighbors-
i'm the best at being the worst.
and what's more,
i'm taking the blue ribbon first prize trophy
for being a tarnished soured silver second place finisher
in the highest concentration of consecutive instances.
huh?
oh, stop it....
i go for it.
y'know, the gold.
just like it says on that heavy hand up there^^^^
it's just that i'm such a sucker for all those interesting individuals
and tremendous brunettes that i forget myself.
and that's no joke.
ugh.
yeah, i'm kinda caught up in that sh!t.
i go for it every time.
the good news?
i get just a little closer every time,
and i never ever ever give up.
failing is fine.
hell,
i've been doing that like a professional for decades.
it's quitting that's where i draw the line that can't be crossed.
-
now,
what do all of y'all know about hard styles?
yeah, i'll bet.
but on the ones?
mine are harder.
i promise.
hmmmm?
c'mon.
just relax, a little baby bit, dear-
i'm talking very specifically about the general theme
of being brought low by aiming too high...
it's kind of a sure-fire way to be certain to always miss the mark.
huh?
take it easy.
i'm right on target.....for coming up short.
what?
yeah. you're probably right.
i suppose pouting IS unbecoming of a warrior poet.
it's all really happening though.
that's the whole point.
jeez.
i just always want more.
i mean,
that's the objective, isn't it?
never less, never easy, never enough;
never quiet, never soft.....