“What?” she asked peering at me intently. For a moment I feared that I had voiced my opinion regarding the flamingo out loud.
“No, nothing,” I replied, trying to hide the huge grin on my face, which would later result in laugh lines, which I would have to remedy with a strange mixture of alligator pear (an avocado for those of you in the know), honey and water. I would liberally apply the sticky paste to my face and lie back with cool cucumber slices on my eyes. Sir Laughalot, my resident hamster, would have a fit and be unable to run on his little wheel which would leave me only slightly more intelligent than a dust bunny. Anything to prevent wrinkles; I already had a turkey neck and breasts which I could throw over my shoulder and kill any ninja assassins standing behind me. Yes, this was why push up bras were invented, they kept everything perky and exactly where they were when I was sixteen and not falling to my knees in wild abandon. Hmm, perhaps some nice scarves would hide the gobble and wobble in the neck area….perhaps…
“Drifting,” she said sarcastically.
“I don’t know why I even bother to appear, when all you do is ignore me and daydream. Really, how on earth do you get any writing done? You keep staring into the distance with several variations of dumb on your face? Would you like to know what I have learned lately?” she asked, changing direction so fast that my head spun and I looked like a bobble headed dog in the back window of someone’s awful yellow station wagon.
“Yes,” I sighed, “do enlighten me.”
“I learned how to do that hip and happening dance thingy,” she said. Just the fact that she knew the phrase ‘hip and happening’ surprised me, but dancing? Somehow I could not picture her body gyrating to any beat. It would keep on moving ad infinitum as she jiggled and bopped; her body had laws of its own.
“Which dance would that be,” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
“That gangbang style, you know: off da gangbang style, walk, walk, crawl,” she sang lustily. She immediately threw her hip to the side and moved to a beat that only she could hear. Psy, the original artist and dancer, would have had a heart attack if he could have been privy to the muse’s rendition or rather destruction of his unique moves. She looked and moved like a male flamingo, desperate to attract the attention of the unwilling female. She spread her arms to the side and strutted, lifting her dimply knees as high as they could go and looking sharply left and right. She dipped her neck inelegantly and stumbled into a faltering moonwalk. It was a rather weird and unusual mating dance and no Opan Gangnam style was present at all.
I could no longer contain the laughter that was bubbling like a volcano in my throat. I giggled hysterically, fell off my chair and rolled around on the tile floor in hysterics, spewing hot lava onto the brittle porcelain. Okay, so it was only a little spittle, but I am a writer after all.
She stopped, glared at me and sniffed.
“You never appreciate me,” she said in a teary voice and stormed off to her special corner of my brain, where she slammed the door pointedly. I could hear the echoes of her theatrical sobs for several hours afterwards. Needless to say she hasn’t shown her face since and I am left to my own devices and my stories are the worse for it. I needed her; she made life interesting, quirky and insane. If you find her wandering on the street somewhere, please return her as soon as possible to the right hemisphere, third quadrant, to the left of the Corpus Callosum and directly in front of the Thalamus of my brain. Thank you in advance…
The hilarious flamingo mating dance: