Hello there, Person. My name is William West, conqueror of touch,
taste, sight, sound, smell, space, time, awesomeness, and all the
other seven billion senses that are out there. Not sure what that
means, I mean, it something I randomly came up with on the spot.
It's pretty cool if you ask me. Anyway, enough about me. I'm here
to write about John. No, not John the astronaut, nor John the
football player, nor John the creepy old guy at the park that
throws birdseed at people. You see, friend/enemy/person who's
reading this because that person is bored, I'm talking about John
the man who beat ginormous odds, survived the impossible, and
looked death square in the face and said, You just got pwnd. Read
on. This is John. I'm going to spare you all the boring details
about what he looks like and stuff. But I will say that John is
quite the philosopher, always looking towards the future. This is
what he is thinking, I am dead. I'm totally dead. Any minute now
I'm going to float up to heaven and then St. Peter will say, What's
your name? Then I'll say, I have no idea. Then he'll look at me all
weird and not know what to do with me. My only wish right now is
that someone will find my body and give me a proper burial. WAIT,
NO, scratch that, IF someone actually does come here, they'll only
find charred bones and molten flesh! No chance of ever surviving.
HEY, GET OUTTA THERE!" Well, thanks for the advice. I was about to
do that. "THROUGH THE VENTS, NOW!" I can hear he doesn't see my
"predicament". I'll help him out in the nicest way I can. With
sarcasm. "Oh, Cool. You're saying that I can get a flaming pile of
rubble off my foot, and even if I do it will heal instantly and the
only thing that will hurt more is some girl putting alcohol on it?"
Awkward silence. "Well, you don't have to be such a jerk about it."
More awkward silence. He seems to forget I'm trapped in a flaming
room. "Alright, alright I'm coming." Finally.
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