The Marquis de Sade called me last week to say that he wanted his insanity back.
Having been possessed by some supernatural heat wave that descended upon my quiet suburbian neighbourhood, I was unreluctant and unrelenting, and often speaking in my sleep. A nap, any pediatrician will tell you (for a superlunary consultation fee), is a good thing. Having outgrown child status, I have yet to outgrow this philosophy. I take it very seriously. I nap at all times a day, not just once a day. It is a victimless crime: I nap alone, quietly, and myself harvest the objectionable fruits of spending too much time lying horizontal - a bigger bottom.
My bottom is big enough to rule the great firmament.
"My bottom is big enough to rule the great firmament." (It looks better and less ignominious in parentheses.)
Thus began a resusciation of my gym locker key. Hitherto disregarded and plainly ignored, it has since been allowed to leave the claustraphobic confines of my dresser drawer. I must announce in public (even if it be a cyber public, and a non-existent, deaf cyber public) that it has served its purpose well - never have I encountered such a smooth-turning key, so beautiful in its design, angular yet rounded, and rounded my bottom must be! Upon my gravestone will my gym key be saluted and honoured.
Of course, I regretfully anticipate the day when (my) arrant slothfulness will once again repudiate the poor gym locker key. To its wooden jail cell it will go, while the bottom of its unpardonable gaoler swells and expands ever disgracefully.
Ipso facto, I write this short historical account of my gym locker key (it is at present unable to write its own autobiography) to remember it, before I again forget it.
