I’m Not Down
My artistic, self-fulfilling, moderately medicated journey begins when I was around ten years old. My brother, always the funny guy, thought it would be funny to push me from a seventy-story building and break my left arm. It was either amputate it or die and I chose to cut it out figuring that I already had another one and it was the better one. My brother apparently felt pretty bad about it though I would never know since he would die from a “kooky fetish” overdose just three months later.
I have interest in a lot of things. When I lost my left arm, I wanted to be a painter. So I mixed all the paints, washed all my brushes, painted all my trees, houses, and mountains with my other left arm. It was all fun for me and all the people told me how pretty all of my paintings were, even though they were as awful as my father’s splattered face when he was run over by a truck, an ambulance, a galloping horse, an elephant cut loose, and an armadillo. But since I was missing one arm, I guess I could not blame them much. They just wanted me to feel better.
When I lost my other arm, I decided better that I wanted to be a writer. It was hard for me at first to hold the papers, the pens, and my notes with only my feet but after a while I learned how to do it badly, then I learned how to do it effectively, then I learned how to do it terrible, and finally learned how to do it properly; clean my feet, that is, writing was even harder for my spine and all my bone marrows.
I wrote around twenty short stories per day because I did not have any friends and my mother used to look at me as half daughter and half freak. She loves me my mother but she does not like me, which is why she kicked me out when that idiot kung-fu robber shot me in the legs and forced me, again, to have something amputated. I did manage to kick the crap out of him regardless.
With the decision of being a professional writer in my mind, I had to find a way to write without using my fingers or my toes. The answer came to me while I was eating ice cream with a cute girl who seemed to like me for some reason and my tongue froze. With that struck idea in my mind, I rolled in my skateboard back home and began training my tongue by rolling pens inside of it, hitting piano notes and force it to lift up toilet paper rolls. And with that, three more years of my life went on.
But I was surprised by how things turned out in the end.
My tongue not only became strong, it became large and elastic like a Superfrog’s and it somehow got the ability to break itself into five, tinier tongues that took care of my lack of finger and toe problem. In fact, right now I’m writing a novel about a giant starfish that doesn’t like its job very much with their help. I swear that sometimes they seem to have life on their own.
My mother called me to apologize and, although she still thought I was a freak, she at least was proud about it and constantly said that any circus would be happy to have me and exhibit me at very fair prices.
That cute girl I was eating ice cream? She is now my fiancée. I must admit, though, I was a little worried if she would freak out about my tongue’s unique situation but she appears to be into that kind of thing so I could not ask for a better person to spend the rest of my life with.
Oh and the book thing turned alright too, very good bestsellers.