Ebony and Ivory

I should say that I actually just threw this together and haven't even proof-read it because I seriously need to do homework.

I really should be doing homework, but if I have to read another page of Sigmund Freud then I will probably hang myself, and this has nothing to do with some infantile urge to sleep with my mother—as he would argue—it really just has to do with the fact that I’m bored. I did get only little gem from him which I will carry with me the rest of my days, “I’m not afraid of you, I defy you, I have a penis.” I don’t really know when I’m going to be presented with an opportunity to incorporate that into conversation in polite company, but I guess that is what blogs are for.

I’m a very reserved person. I enjoy looking my best, reading a book, having political and spiritual discussions with those around me, and basically living the way I imagine gentlemen did in the 17^th and 18^th century. I might even go as far as to say that I want to be Dr. Frasier Crane. His vocabulary amazes and astounds me.

Very rarely do I find myself wanting to break out of my civilized mode, but I’ve developed a theory thanks to my friends C and S.

C and I are two pees in a pod, and went so far as to describe us as Ebony and Ivory. He being the pasty white and string-bean shape I’ve come to associate with animal tusks, while I’m the obviously more sultry, opulent and darker ebony. He took offense to this, and I’m not so sure if it was because someone realized that his general shape does remind one whitewashed bean stalks, or because he wanted to be ebony. After some quick thought I realized that he was in fact ebony—at least on occasion. C manages to keep his ebony locked in a cell somewhere inside of his soul. I imagine that it looks something like Diana Ross with big wild hair. Occasionally Mrs. Ross pull one over on the guards—probably through the use of promised goods such as clothing or pastries. As she clubs them over the head—with what I assume would be animal tusks because when you are that white on the outside I’m sure you’re just bursting with stores of ivory—I can see her making a break from the cell. As she sprints up stairs to get to the entrance she grows louder and louder until at last she explodes in a giant flamboyant mess screaming and singing and gyrating all over the place.

Never does this happen within the confines of C’s home or anywhere closer to privacy. This inevitably happens in someplace public where children are present. While it causes some trepidation among families they should probably be grateful that C’s inner mrs. Ross escaped when she did, because it allows that to sit down with their children and answer the question, “mommy what’s wrong with that guy?”

Disclaimer- C, I love you, you are hilarious. S. I’m so impressed with where you’re at in your life. The pics I saw of you while FB stalking where just amazing. You’ve really gone through an impressive transformation and I love you for that.

Mrs. Ross, please don’t sue me.