I am retardedly obsessed with the possibility that people can hear me thinking, even though any actual telepaths would scream and die as soon as they tried to touch the hammered-together thought processes that race like Special Olympics superstars through my brain. In fact, in the case that any of the golden age sci-fi authors were right and eventually we'll be put to war against homo superior, mankind's best weapons against the magical future psychics would be me and tubgirl.
No matter how much I tell myself that spontaneously evolving thought-rape powers is completely impossible in this modern era of the increasingly polluted human genepool, I practice nursery rhyme thought screening with the best of them. I could probably teach a college class in evading psychics. And then there would be a loser in the class who would in the end be the best student in any class ever, after a bunch of crazy adventures including a midnight panty raid gone horribly wrong. And in the end, when the credits roll, I'd feel pretty sorry about standing up and laughing at him for no reason one day, triggering his pants to fall down embarrassingly in class while he cries and runs out of the room. I'd probably buy him an ice cream. And then scratch him behind the ears, gently, until he learns to trust my filthy human smell.
2 comments:
hahaha!! when i was little, i thought my mom could hear what i was saying, so i would cuss a lot in my head, and look at her to see if she knew what i was saying
I want you to buy me an ice cream! But I could do without the ear scratching. I am not a Ferengi.
Post a Comment