Blog Story #3

Here is my 3rd story, right on time. Woohoo!

I have a problem. Yes, another one. You see, I have this annoying habit called sleep-talking. It's not sleep-walking, it's sleep-talking. Big difference. It all started in my first year of high school, listening to Professor Beezwit droning on and on about biology. I memorized the answers so that I could answer questions in class correctly. You might think, "How does he fool anybody? Aren't his eyes closed?" Well, simple solution, my eyes are not closed. The whole sleep-talking thing started because of my secret life, at night. I am a mustard scientist. Yes, I love mustard on everything, except steak. It's absolutely disgusting on steak, repulsive really. So during the day I take high school classes and sleep while I talk, resting up for that night. The more I talk, the more sleep I get. So as you can imagine, I'm quite a talker. I'm probably the one with the most likely chance of being able to talk the hind leg off of a mule. I have a rare handful of friends who endure my incessant rambling. But all this is for my secret life. Being a mustard scientist is my dream, so I have entertained nary a thought contrary to my continuation of this hidden hobby. But I've recently graduated high school, and there are no classes in college about being a mustard scientist. So I am skipping college. I believe that I'm ready to begin my career as a mustard scientist. In order to do that I need to break my habit of sleep-talking. As my best friend says, "Breaking habits is tough but don't give up." Well, I gave up. I couldn't stand trying to break it on my own. Sow I went to the Board of Help and asked them for . . . help.
     "Hello. I need some help with--" I was abruptly interrupted. 
     "Help? That is what we're here for. How may we help?"
     I grinned weakly. "I need help with sleep-talking--". I was once again cut off and instead transferred to the Board of Psychological Instruction. I trudged up to the desk.
     "I need help. You see, I sleep-talk."
     The guy on the other side of the desk twirled his waxed mustache expertly. Then he suddenly popped upright. "I know your problem!"
     I stared at him, incredulous. "I just told you my problem. So unless you have incredible memory loss skills, you should know my problem."
     The man with the mustache twirled his aforementioned feature with impatience. "No, no, my friend. I have interpreted your version of your problem into your real problem. Would you like to hear it?"
     Still disbelieving, I motioned for him to continue. 
     He launched right into it. "All right then. You suffer from extreme financial stress, you are extremely insecure talking or interacting with other people, you suffer from insatiable curiosity, you have an over-imaginative mind, you also suffer from phobophobia, and you suffer from failures at cooking experiences. Satisfied?"
     I was still in doubt if not only more confused by his bizarre interpretation of my abnormal state. I wandered in a daze down a street until I bumped into a close friend. We sat down at a nearby bench and started talking. I told him my problem and why I was trying to fix it. He listened with close-friend like attention, very distracted. He questioned me about what the Board of Psychological Instruction said. I told him that I had been diagnosed as a financial wreck, a shy person, and a failure of a cook. So to this day I have suffered from my sad state. In fact I actually proposed to my wife in my sleep. Talk about firsts.

I hope that you enjoyed it. It wasn't exactly my favorite. Have a great day everyone!