CURLING (Into A Ball)
Ten points if you do it for an hour.
A thousand points if you don't leave bed all weekend.
Gold medal for you if you quit your job, sell that gold medal, invest in the bond market, gain wealth, thereby proliferating more gold. This will translate to happiness. Mail your teenage nephew red Beats by Dre headphones for his "domepiece." This is a successful game of curling (into a ball).
A brash alarm begins its unforgiving beep. It's the morning; dawn peeks through your window.
"It's all downhill from here," you say.
Punch someone! Reflect on how weak you are! Try to break their teeth! Really try!
TIME OUT. PENALTY.
Slip on a patch of ice at the corner of your block while trying to reach the deli for more Nilla Wafers. The glint in the sidewalk is tinged like silver as you lie moaning, bruised, probably with a shattered ribcage. This is your award.
Dim the lights in your room. Scroll through pictures on Facebook of your ex-boyfriend snowboarding in Vermont or whatever with his blonde girlfriend, Erica or whatever. Have the unhinged gall to "like" each photo and comment "Powder looks fresh, guys! Keep shredding that gnar!!" For every comment you post, one silver medal. Make a batch of hot mulled wine in the tub, bump yourself up to gold.
Have sex with Bob, seems like a good idea.
No medals awarded, that shit got ugly.
GET REAL. YOU DON'T DANCE.
Photo via matins/flickr.