diagnosis: the vapors

It was truly an ordeal for such a delicate lady as myself.  After posting entry #1 in my Cherry Jones NaBloPoMo, I capriciously reread the passage.  Well, my musings begat a fantastical waking dream… a daydream, if you will.  In it, a dewy Ms. Cherry Jones, clad in cargo shorts and a tank top that revealed her spectacular arms, was manipulating the oars of a rowboat in a most agreeable rhythm.

I began an involuntary ecstatic dance, spinning wildly as a whirling dervish might (or Julie Andrews, depending on your affinity for musical theater, if one doth catcheth my drift).  As I spun in a delirious fever, my pantaloons became ensnared on the spinning wheel next to the hearth and I tumbled onto the bricks.  When I revived, I found myself in a crumpled heap with a bump on my nether regions the size of a horseless carriage.

Fortuitously, a healer by the name of Doc Johnson has hung a shingle in the strip mall next door, between Taco Loco and Chester’s Check Cashing Depot.  I gathered my skirts up and shuffled yon for some sage medical advice.  As unladylike as it may be, I was forthcoming to the good doctor about what precipitated my injury.  In all his good humour, he thoughtfully replied, “You do realize you don’t have a chance in hell with her, don’t you?”  I believe he also invoked the term “loser”, but I was chortling so at the nonsensicalness of his statement, I cannot be sure.

And so, gentle reader, take this as a cordial admonition: do not conjure up rowboats and Ms. Cherry Jones together, lest you bring a case of the vapors upon your good soul.