Stupid Questions

They say there’s no such thing as stupid questions. Only stupid people who ask them. I am living, usually breathing proof that this is not true. At the moment, I am hooked up to a remotely operated forced living device. I am typing this with my eyelashes. Let me tell you what happened.

On that fateful day, I woke up not realizing that I was in for a fateful day. I was minding my own business, organizing my Ziploc bags, when it happened. The terror was so awful, so traumatic, yet so sweet-smelling and oddly turquoise. Next thing I know, I’m in the hospital, hooked up to life support, with several people gathered around me. I didn’t know who they were, until the doctors told my parents to leave. Was I really that out of it?

I still have flashbacks of bright lights and Romanians. And bitter, bitter cold. Oh, those hands! Icy as Jack Frost himself. But I must move on. Eventually, I was transported from the hospital to a small cabin in the woods. Apparently they don’t like anything radioactive in the intensive care unit. That’s where I am now, in the woods, living off a semi-functional life support-like device. I don’t know how it’s powered. The small men in robes wouldn’t tell me. But I do know that I’m safe. For now.

If you want to know why I’ve been isolated from society by Mark Zuckerburg, why I will never go near another IHOP, and why I still can’t bring myself to eat squash, go ahead and ask. But it’s a stupid question.

Until next time, this is Xavier Yes. Stay classica….


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