Ectoplasm

My hand it feels soggy, which cannot be a good sign.
I am slightly distracted from my bodily discomfort by the loud tones of Miley Cyrus who keeps insisting that she can buy herself flowers, I wish that she would pipe down and prove it by popping off down to the shops to purchase some pink carnations.
Unfortunately I am not so lucky as she persists by crooning on about taking herself dancing and by God I wish that she would moon walk her annoying self out of my boudoir. I fumble with my phone to stop my 4th musical wrecking ball of a morning musical alarm, I liked her better when she was Hannah Montana. Imagine having an alter ego like Miley who put on a wig and became a different totally unrecognisable person, akin to superman who popped on a pair of specs to become peter parker. In the same vein I often wonder who is Dolly Parton’s other self? This is a question that I fear will remain one of the worlds great mysteries along with area 51 and the older generations love of egg based festive alcoholic beverages.
 
In my new found peace and quiet I look around my boudoir, which has more of the aesthetic of a thrift shop and the stale aroma of an old persons care home  than a cultured channel number five scented glamourous  moulin rouge den of inequity. I do however  have an in vogue feature wall, which features a white board with my to do list scrawled across it in black marker pen. I once got told that a black board was racist so I should call it a chalk board, so with this in mind what do I call my white board? I think I will call it Charlie, because this name has the added advantage of not being gender specific. I am sensitive to respecting gender and after consideration I have  decided upon my own pronouns of she/her/they/them/I/me. It is a complex business arriving at one’s personal pronouns, the only entity that I know about that had this sussed way ahead of time was the progressive hairy Cousin Itt in the Adams Family saga.
 
Urgh, my hand is still wet, with an alien viscous dampness, I really hope that I haven’t had a number one or number two accident during the night. Who decided the numbering system, one is a wee and two is a poo? if one is denoted as possessing the highest status, I would argue that a poo is intrinsically more valuable as it has form, a pungent smell and takes considerably more time and effort to produce. Alarm number 5 of the morning loudly  reassures me that Miley can hold her own hand, a feat that I don’t think is boast worthy, as you don’t need to contort your limbs to hold your own hand and this action really has no practical value. Now bending your thumb backwards all the way onto you forearm, now that is freakishly  impressive, but has a limited application. Being able to touch your tongue onto your nose however,  may come in useful in war times if tissues ever  become rationed. I am not even going to consider what one would have to do if toilet paper was in short supply.
Regardless, Miley’s lyrics strangely give me confidence to hold my appendages ambidextrously together and lift them into my field of vision enabling me to inspect the unknown rogue substance.