January 18, 2006
A good host
Don't you hate it when...? Apparently this is what is known as a rhetorical question, a 'well crafted' tool according to "Simply Stated, theory and practice in public speaking" used to connect with your audience when presenting a topic of discussion or debate. Its intensions serve to draw on common experience thereby pulling your reader into your vivid world of self-discourse. You become a peterpan of sorts: peppering the rhetorical question, the pixie dust which whisks your audience off to Never-Never-land, where great stories and speeches stay young forever, long after the flesh from hand that wrote them rots off the bone, like dripping wax from a burning candle. I suppose then - taking the advice of Dianne S. Blake and Laura Jacobi, I shall begin with a rhetorical question. "Can I touch it?" Last night I was asked that very same question. Quarantined to a twin sized bed, the result of having a closet sized room, I economized my space as I lay next to another warm body. It had been months since I had felt the sensation of contact comfort, a primary human need on maslow's pyramid (right above TV and toilet paper). I will not fictionize, as I rarely do in my blog entries or any other avenue of my life for that matter, so I do submit that I did enjoy the warm heat that radiated off that firm body. However, I felt awkwardness creep over me. My bedmate was not a friend nor a date, nor even a candidate. His presense was merely the result of too much hospitality. The situation seemed about as Kosher as a pig's hoof and seedier than the grit from the bottom of a fem cowboy boot after a night of line dancing at a lesbian bar. An elegant and statuesk robed woman, wearing a blindfold, began to tip the scales where discomfort greatly outweighed enjoyment. Seeking escape from the groping hands, and appeasement from my moral abjection Resolution took hold an guided me to the bathroom. The plan clearly materialized in my brain like a embolism. Grabbing the Jerkins, my weapon of choice, I flung the bottle at the boy. My feelings about the situation shifted from weird to practical...howelse was I going to get some sleep. Heavy breathing ensued, followed by an acute vocalized burst- the demons had left his body. Tension and release. I could finally sleep.
Posted by droz0008 at January 18, 2006 7:53 PM