What do you think she sees in the beast?
All this and more, ladies.
I wonder what the rules are for whether you turn into a skeleton or a ghost when you die. It probably has something to do with how well the skeletal frame has endured the manner of your death. I'm guessing that you run into problems as you wear the skeleton down in the afterlife and that that is why you sometimes run across skulls without their bodies.
Last night I was watching television and feeling very uncomfortable. No, it wasn't caused by Craig Ferguson coming on to Will Ferrell.
That makes me titter. It was that I couldn't stop thinking about how my right pinkie was touching my right ring finger. Does it always do that? Why don't I notice it all the time?
Maybe you would like to know why I was so focused on it. I don't know why I was so focused on it. Perhaps my ring finger had finally had enough and filed a formal complaint with my brain.
I supposed that the problem was in how the pinkie kept rubbing up on the ring finger, so I tried spreading them out on the ground beside me. Much as you might if you were going to play a game that involved drinking a lot of alcohol and then stabbing a knife at your fingers. It helped a little bit, but that is a tiring position to keep the hand in. Maybe I should work out more or something?
I also tried clenching my fist. That didn't help much either. As soon as my ring finger realized that this just put it in even closer contact with my pinkie the complaints redoubled (it sounds like it could be a word though, you gotsta admit).
So, I endured and went to bed hoping that it wouldn't be so bad in the morning. Of course, while I was drifting off to sleep, I couldn't help but think that at least my left hand wasn't having the problems that my right hand was.
Guess what happens when you focus on your left hand when you've got pinkie problems with your right? No, they don't go away. They don't migrate either -- heavens, wouldn't that have been nice. No, the right hand problems quickly have babies, raise them to maturity and then send them with an unhealthy quantity of angering pills over to live in your left hand.
At least ... at least my feet never give me problems like this.
The worst part about dying in space is that nobody would hear you scream. Well, no. The worst part is that your bodily fluids would be gurgling and sploogling out through the crevices of your spacesuit and nobody would be able to hear those nasty, nasty noises. If I can't make somebody barf while I die, there isn't much reason to even do it. I mean, really.
Although it is more fun to imagine it so, I suspect that the body wouldn't decompose to the skeleton simply by being exposed to the cold airless void of space. To achieve the same effect in real life, then, you'd have to either pack a skeleton into a spacesuit and then set it adrift or fill your buddy's space suit with a load of really hungry rats.
Pretty messed up.
I was writing this poem on the back of a survey for my history class, but I was interrupted by having to turn it in. Why don't you finish the poem (I mean, if you can) and then leave it in the comments? Wouldn't that be absolutely delightful? Yes, so get to it (seriously though, no shame if you can't rhyme with numbered).
