While it’s true, similar to a snail, I always used to leave
some kind of wet trail behind me particularly when I traverse the hallowed and
much traveled ground between kitchen and latrine. But recently I have noticed
as I age my skin is less malleable, my remaining hair’s less greasy, and I only
break out in a real sweat when the candy dish runs low. Dried Prune analogies
aside, I am concerned that all that dust in this dump is coming from the sands
of time which seem to be tending toward gale force rather than a gentle breeze.
A case in point is once per annum I do a self-administered
blood test to show the health insurance overlords that I am worthy of another
year of earth time as long as I pay their insane policy ransom. I dread this test
of the red not because I have to drain a vein for a plasma big screening, but mostly
due to the fact that I can’t pump enough iron no matter what I do. I shake my
hands, soak them in hot water, jump and run to get my jumbo juices flowing yet you
guessed it - another year, another bloodless coup!
Yes, after I exhaust the hygienic lances to pop a droplet of
vampire vintage, I end up resorting to whatever dull paint-scraping X-acto
blade I have laying around to keep the trickle tap leaking weakly. Despite my daily
disguise as a big SAP, sadly if Mrs. Butterworth ever called me out for
inspection she’d know I’m at least a quart low of sweet sanguine syrup and
label me incapable as a maple tree. The good news is that usually only my pride
suffers wounding, so rarely am I in need of first-aid staples like Band-Aids n’
gauze to shut-up my flaws, and tax my lack of liquidity.
When penning ‘In Cold Blood’ clearly white-clad n’ pasty
faced Capote was referring to the missing Elmer’s glue-goo that spewed through his
veins and the powdered rust of my own feckless circulatory system. Ahh that probably
explains why I break for the buffet so often since all that grabbing n’ chewing
keeps me warm, my platelets full, and
If nothing else a chance to slather up in the butter trough to moisturize my
dry hide. Who knows maybe at the dessert bar both Ben and Jerry can shun traditional
dairy, and try to rehydrate my essence from top to Phlebotomist to transfUSE
me as inspiration for their next flavor sensation - ‘Macabre Clotted Cream-o-globin’!
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