You reflect that you really should have gone on that trip to Shang Simla in high school. But, well, there was a raging party that weekend and chicks > trips.
It can’t be that hard. You’ve watched plenty of ninja movies, after all. You concentrate really really hard, but after a few minutes you’re still standing in the same place and now you have a headache.
Jog to the gym. You have your workout clothes with you, why not?
You slap your head. Of course, duh, why didn’t you think of that? You could have just spun into a different outfit whenever you wanted.
The sand goes flying. You feel refreshed, you feel sparkly, you feel…
pink and skull-y and manly! Rawr!
You set off for the gym.
As you are walking/jogging to gym, you begin to wonder if maybe becoming a fisherman or gardner or collector isn’t a better idea. Who wants to fetch coffee anyway… nah – beneath you. You’ve heard of the amounts of money involved in these “alternative” job markets and besides, who are you to deprive your town of the constant sight of sparkly man abs?
Okay, so there are risks in the carrot-selling business. But you are not a man to be tied to a desk. You could just dabble a bit in carrots and then supplement your income with gardening and fish and mailing off pretty rocks. And, bonus – you could collect said pretty rocks in your current outfit, which is a total babe magnet. It’s even better than a three wolf moon shirt.
But those child support payments are coming due really soon. You can quit and go into business for yourself after your financial situation stabilizes.
You decide to walk to the community pool instead because it is closer–you’ll show up in your swimsuit, and if you’re still wet then your abs will be sorta glittery, but in a more natural way. Maybe by then the magical wishing cabs will start working again?
take a quick dip in the community pool, show up with man-abs glistening instead of potentially glittery.
Unless…are you a kleptomaniac? If so, just run across the street and “borrow” someone’s car.
The pool is even closer than the gym. And the Cyclone of Flying Clothes did not get rid of all the sand. There’s still some left in…unfortunate places. So, a quick dip in the pool, which maybe, just maybe there’s some glitter there, and then you can stroll into Doo Peas all wet and glistening and bare-chested. The girls will be all over you. Girlfriend #6, here you come!
You jog along the empty and silent street, daydreaming about sparkly abs and women driven mad by lust. The entrancing pictures disappear when the itch suddenly returns. Your ears are on fire.
Scratch your ears!
You stop and scratch your ears, but it doesn’t help. You keep scratching and scratching and you’re afraid of drawing blood, which would really ruin the whole sparkly manly pink skull pants of love image and the sand has worked its way into really truly unfortunate places and you just want this all to stop already and you want to go to work and you want to find Girlfriend #6 and it’s hot and you’re tired and what is that shiny thing in the corner of your eye?
Your hand falls to your side. Your ears are still raging, but you’re not paying attention.
There is a gleaming black Margaret Vaguester on the road in front of you. You covet its sleek curves, its tight steering, its round tires, its ability to go much faster than you can jog.
You look around to see if anyone is watching. The street is as empty as it’s been ever since you woke up.
You edge closer to the car. You’re not generally a klepto, but desperate times and all that.
You reach for the handle, mentally crossing your fingers and hoping it’s not locked. Please don’t let it be locked.
It’s not locked.
It’s also not empty.
At first you thought the interior was red leather, but no…no, it’s not.
You fall to your knees and retch. You will never complain about your ears itching again. You love the itch. You want to marry the itch, maybe have little itch babies.
Behind you, the pair of ears hanging from the Vaguester’s rearview mirror swing gently in the breeze. They’re all that’s left to identify the driver as human.