Luck-quality is a bubble wrap that protects you when you are struck down by a glimpse of uncertainty. My bubble wrap unfortunately decided to scoot off somewhere in-between not being the proper age in 1997 for having everly MMMBop hunk Taylor Hanson as my imaginary boyfriend, and being chosen to make a convincing performance as a dog in a sheep costume. Being in the wrong place at the right time is a natural force of the life of me. The glorious happening of stepping in dog poop is a popular accidental moment, and I have had the pleasure of doing so, many times. I once stepped in a dog poop that could have been produced by something highly likely to tour the world with this big ass sized act. The outcome of this creature was so big that my foot didn’t even make its way through the flob of poop. Instead I ended up sliding through what seemed like a festival toilet on day three, somehow bending my legs and knees in my personally voted most awkward position ever. My idiotic attempt to do a lady like after-tripping-walk-of-shame didn’t succeed very well either. My stepping- in- poo- meter has an uncontrollable high frequency. After a very eventful walk on the monkey trail in a Danish zoo my family and I decided to drive through the lion park. As we drove through the gate and accessed the park, a funky smell appeared in the car, and it turned out that my unluckiness had shined upon me once again. I had stepped in monkey poo while happily walking on the monkey trail. Of course. The zoo had one rule for driving in the lion park. Do not open the windows. I wasn’t picked for family member of the week that week.
I have become surprisingly talented in handling moments like these, just as a private heroic move to escape the embarrassment.
“Remember who you are. You are my son and the one true king. Remember…” – yep that’s right. Only a quote from Lion King is appropriate for my taking-action-in-thinking-out-loud process. (which will gradually help me get some sort of brain relaxation, I assume.) For Simba to fulfill his destiny to be a king (while my destiny is fulfilled with a simple task of solving out my difficulties with walking properly in rubber shoes,) he needed to remember who he was, and where he came from. Roots are no joke to these lions.
I do agree with this lion theory to finding your true self- it is important to know where your seeds are planted. To humans though, it is less complicated and it doesn’t include bug eating adventures with random safari animals. The longest our roots can take us is; man + woman + love = new root. Whales (yes I will get to the point soon), on the other hand just splurt their ”magic dust” out in the daring blue, and hope they get lucky. Their roots must be just as screwed up and confused as Simba was. The lazy apples takes the prize in the least effort olympics, though. You eat them, plant their seeds – and business is done. That’s a reproducing gold medal right there. Lots of fruits have this glorious feature, but the bananas are left out from this social seed digging circle of life. It is worse enough that they are the unfortunate root of penis jokes and cherished by monkeys.
Where do they come from? This piece of fruit is so mysterious. Do you dig the whole peal into the ground and shazzam; a banana is produced? If the seeds are not produced by the actual banana, where does this humble fruits get its seeds from then? You know. Humans come from humans, whales from whales and the lazy apples from their own seed. I’m gonna give the banana some credit. Today I have officially now been randomly confused by a banana. You sneaky fruit.
A revelation of a wonderful speculation popped up while riding my luxury carriage – also known as bus 57, the other day. I was sort of fake reading “The Gum Thief” (staring at the words while challenging myself in guessing the colour of the next traffic light, therefore causing the distraction of the book as I found myself fake reading.)
As I turned the page with no intention to actually reading the next one, I was promptly confused by the two words my twinkie of a finger had located. Two words now causing distraction in my private traffic light prediction, which was already distracting me from whatever chance I had of understanding this book, and the these two words had now become the headquarters of my full attention. …bird yawn. Hm. Bird yawn. Bird yawn? I don’t know in what kind of Harry Potter world this dude have seen birds yawn, but I can only imagine he must have been trapped inside the body of Alice in Wonderland where cats pops out of the thin air, and caterpillars smokes. However, my bird observations don’t reach much further than the absence a beautiful singing sound coming from a raven. Poor things. They sound more like a disappointed deer in breeding season. My head was banging trying to think of a time in my life, where I’ve seen a bird yawn and it just wasn’t stored anywhere. Imagining the process of a bird yawning turned out to be extremely difficult as well. If they do yawn, is this awkward peak opening caused by tiredness and a reaction of their brain needing oxygen? And if this glorious moment have ever occurred in the wild – can one bird look at another bird while yawning, and cause this victimized bird to yawn as well – even though it wasn’t tired? There I was. A random passenger with one random thought. Do birds yawn? I just don’t get it.