>eenie, meenie, miny, moe…

>A friend of mine was given the task of creating a “choose your own adventure” story, which were books I was addicted to as a kid but had forgotten over the (many) years. In case you haven’t ever read one, “choose your own adventure” books were stories which at the end of each chapter there were several options for what should happen next, and the reader was given the privilege of choosing one. Each choice was given a corresponding page number to flip to in the book which was a continuation of that particular selection. Of course you always cheated and read all three choices, which kinda defeated the purpose, but you were also the same kind of kid that only opened the cereal box for the toy inside and said to hell with the cereal, so you are capable of anything.

Anyway, I thought it’d be fun to write a chapter. So here goes:

Chapter 1: The Unfamiliarity of Writing in the Second Person.

It is Thursday. It is wholly unremarkable.

You lean back in your chair, sigh aloud, stare at the ceiling.

Sitting up, you return to staring blankly at your computer screen, vaguely trying to recall what exactly it was you were supposed to be doing.

(purple)

Shaking your head, you attempt to collect your thoughts in a feeble attempt to regain productivity. What was it…

(purple)

You abruptly sit upright, hands grasping the armrests of your chair. Your eyes inadvertently dash from left to right as your brain tries to comprehend why exactly

(purple)

keeps manifesting itself in your cerebral cortex.

It is far too early in the day for this. Thursday. You could never get the hang of Thursdays.

You once again lean back in your chair, contemplating taking off early. Only…

(round)

Your eyes have forgotten how to function properly. They began darting rapidly around, investigating the situation.

Regaining your composure, you stand and stretch a bit, inhaling deeply, and…

SMACK!

Shaking off the effects of the random assault, you open your eyes in time to notice a rather large, violet-colored tentacle dangling in front of you.

Oh.

You don’t dare look up. You should look up, but you don’t dare look up. You don’t need to. You already know what’s up there.

To save you the effort of glancing upward, the large, bulbous body of the octopus that has discreetly adhered itself to the ceiling of your desk begins to descend.

It is Thursday. It was supposed to be wholly unremarkable.

If at this point you:

Wish to wrangle the tentacles of the octopus around the handle of a rather oddly-shaped velvet-covered broomstick, go to page 12.

Ask the octopus to enroll in tap-dancing lessons at this little studio you know that is rather reasonably priced, page 43.

And if you decide to grab an egg-salad sandwich and head out for some golf, do not turn to any page. I hate golfers. And I’m not altogether too fond of egg salad, either. So go away. Quit reading my shit.

voulez-voulez-vous no happy ending for golfers.

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