It is so very cold and pretty up here, close to space where the sky is black and I can see the stars. I do not feel like I am falling, but that I am floating like I am an angel above the clouds. I wish I had a harp so I could play pretty songs for the birds that fly far below; they are flying from the cold into the warm, like in the movie “The Day After Tomorrow” where they ran from ice and wolves. It would be nice to be a bird; they can fly up or down, left or right. They have total control. I am a train with no brakes.
It is amazing how bright the sun is when there is so little atmosphere. I wish I could stay up here forever, it is so peaceful. There is no sound but the shwoosh of the wind past my metal body. Shwoooosh. Hooray, I am falling.
I hope I like it when I get to where I am going. I feel like Red at the end of The Shawshank Redemption – “I hope the pacific is a blue as it has been in my dreams.” But I am not going to the ocean. I wish I could go to the ocean, like the birds can should they choose to. But I have to accept that I am not the master of my own destiny, I am a hydrogen bomb.
I don’t know why God made me a hydrogen bomb. I did not choose to be a hydrogen bomb nor would I have chosen if I had the choice. But I am grateful for what I am, and I am glad to have such a purpose, whether it is noble or evil, that is not for me to decide. Like everything else in this world I have no choice in the matter, like the tree that is chopped down to make the blades on a windmill or the oats that are cut to feed horses.
I am not writing much. This is the last time I will write from Something Awful in a while because I am a falling hydrogen bomb. Oh God I hope I don’t screw up.
Sir Mix-a-Lot's classic follow up to "Baby Got Back" has serious unintended consequences.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
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