After aimlessly buzzing back and forth through the timber-framed streets of my quaint little town, not even finding an appealing snack to eat or a friend to annoy, i moseyed on back to the catholic dorm where i’ve been known to spend the better part of my days and almost all my nights. The windows that gave onto the Langegasse street were open, for even though the month of november was already busy packing its bags, the day was agreeably warm and dry. I slid through the doorway to good old room 213 and dropped into my usual routine, flying by the few shelves of books with a tender look in my eye, contemplating myself in the be-speckled mirror above the be-speckled sink, or greeting the single warm light-bulb that hung down despondently from the once white ceiling, then throwing a quick glance out of the window into the silent court yard where the fountain had kindly ceased its estival spoutings, and finally heading over to the beckoning desk and the hard, wooden swivel chair that lived in front of it. This very swivel chair was, however, already occupied; namely, by a rather sizable bug encamped smack in the middle of it. It had a red abdomen, long thin legs and a head that stuck strait out with two large shiny eyes that looked broken, somehow. Its two font paws, at first appearing to be stuck into its head as if it were contemplating its insignificant but necessary existence, suddenly began to move like those of a fly cleaning its mouth (which inevitably reminds one of a miniature evil cartoon character rejoicing over some poor fellow’s imminent demise) or like the wistful hand of a lonely author scribbling nonsense upon a page. Tiny little hairs poked out all over its head, though its back, covered in fantastically ornate black markings, was smooth and i don’t think it could fly.
I am a tall, lanky man with a long face that drops down in a straight line from a short and glabrous forehead, sporting no more hair than Julius Caesar did in his heyday, though the stubby brown tufts that do hang down over the aforementioned forehead seem somehow to confer an air of noble seriousness to an otherwise exaggerated countenance. My eyes, nose and mouth are large and uneven; the latter smiles awkwardly, usually refusing to bare its mostly straight and somewhat white teeth. I am almost handsome if you look at me straight on, though my nose and lips have long taken to the regrettable habit of protruding out into the empty space in front of them as i turn my head to one side or the other. I am wearing adidas hiking boots today, which have begun to become unglued at the toe, though their black and red laces yet manage to hold the brown leather into the semblance of two wholes. Rising up from the ground, the shoes turn into blue jeans that are too long for me, which in turn become a red sweater whose large black buttons climb upwards to protect my neck from the cold winter winds that do not blow in my little room. My hands are handsome because they somehow manage to look larger than they really are; and i wear only skin upon my bones, try as i might to reverse this inherited and fashionable fate.