This Writing Exercise Scars My Fingertips.

Gist: A room has one large window, from which a nosy neighbor constantly glares. It's the middle of December in Antarctica with temperatures below human living conditions. It's 12:30 in the afternoon on Friday the 13th. These objects are in the room: * jarred porcupine fetus * a mentally challenged left handed gorilla wearing a gold tuxedo * baby's first alphabet book * gateway to another dimension * soap box derby racer WITH windows * Kleenex box with one remaining tissue * a mentally unstable cockeyed hobo who is lonely. He has a "wandering eye"...his good one ***** "God, can't you just tear yourself away from the window for one shiny second, assface? The view hasn't changed in hours since that old lady checked her mail this morning, which wasn't exactly a life-changing event. Aren't your legs getting the least bit tired? That's what you get for nailing your feet to the floor in front of the window, stupid." I hate that guy. I wish he'd leave already, but I guess he can't since it's Antarctica and people can't just go walking around in temperatures that fair below human living conditions. I don't even remember his name, but he's been here since November. Just showed up like that happens all the time in some Antarctica. I'm about to brick over the window just to spite him, but it's the only one in the room and I don't want to be left in the dark with this guy...you know...just in case. Bobo, the mentally challenged left-handed gorilla in the gold tuxedo, tries to hand me another copy of Baby's First Alphabet Book, but I quickly snatch it from his fat, stinky fingers and fling it through the gateway to another dimension in the corner. "A is for assface, assface." I hate that damn book. Where did this gorilla get 2,587 copies of it anyway? Was the Ruin My Life Bookstore having a sale? That's hardly fair to actual babies who suffer from a real yearning to learn the alphabet and who posses the ability to do so, you know... Stupid nosy neighbor. Stupid monkey, literally. I've become so much more sensitive ever since my entire bottom half turned into a hippo. That's what I get for eating all that pie I guess but still. I grit my teeth together until they make an audible noise, torn between wanting more pie regardless and the territorial feeling creeping over me regarding the last tissue in the Kleenex box lying on the coffee table. Oh great. The stupid soap box derby racer just got back. He left his car blocking my driveway, again, not that I could fit into my car now even if I wanted to and I don't have anywhere to go anyway unless I decide to try and locate some more pie like there are so many places to just get pie on a whim in some Antarctica. Anyway, I told him soap box derby cars aren't supposed to have windows, but he doesn't listen. He'll probably steal my tissue, too. Douchebag. The only thing missing from this picture is a mentally unstable cockeyed hobo with a wondering eye and then...Armageddon. That was Bob, but he got lonely and left. I don't blame him. Nothing here but a bunch of gold tuxedo wearing, baby book reading, nosy assholes who put windows on things that aren't supposed to have windows and steal my last tissue. Douchebags, the lot of them. Bobo tries to hand me another copy of Baby's First Alphabet Book. This time I snatch the jarred porcupine fetus off the shelf of random jarred animal fetuses next to my television stand and chuck it at his head. It glances off and bounces across the floor into the gateway to another dimension. Damn. Lost another one. Now I feel sorry for the dimension. I wish with every fiber in my half-hippo being some pie would come out of it. "Hurr Durrrrr!" Shut up, Bobo. Douchebag.