Hey Remember That Time When I Only Smoked Parliments...

So when I woke up this morning, I had a mix of thoughts going through my head:

Thought 1: "HOLY SHIT! I FELL ASLEEP DOWNSTAIRS WHERE MY ALARM WASN'T SET, AND MY ATHLETIC TRAINING EXAM STARTS IN FOUR MINUTES!!"

Thought 2: "It appears I wrote a poem either in my sleep, or in a state where I was so tired that I no longer remember."

Needless to say, thought one took precedence, as I quickly lept up, threw on pants, which I apparently shed in my sleep, and ran out the door. Thank God it takes literally 18 seconds to run to that class from my apartment. Hurray!

I proceeded to dominate my exam (by the way, I'm the guy in the blue. In case that wasn't clear). NO BIG DEAL.

This left me free to contemplate thought two: the terrible terrible poem that I wrote either in my faux or real sleep. When I woke up, one of my notebooks was open and sitting on the floor in front of me, with a poem written on it, in what is clearly my handwriting. So I marveled at the fact that I managed to rhyme. It's not good, but it rhymes, and that's all that matters. Wait for it, here it is.


I woke up naked in the closet,
to the sound of the dripping faucet,
and I thought maybe I'd lost it,
like I'd seen the line and crossed it.

So I danced outside and stared
at the people that walked there,
and they seemed to wonder where
I'd acquired so much flair.

So I lay down on the ground,
and heard an awful sound,
and when I looked at what I'd found,
I saw that I was bound.

I like apples.


Yeah. That last line is a mystery to me too. I guess the whole thing is, but especially that last part.

So yes, I realize it's not good. But in my defense, I was, at the very least, asleepish.