Genius

Here I lay again, sprawled out sideways on my twin bed, with my feet to the floor and my face to the ceiling...my official day dreaming stance.

Philosophers of old have always been seen posing in prosaic, smart-looking statures, with their faces tilted towards heaven and their hands supporting their precious heads, their bony index finger massaging the bristles on their chin. The ordinary human being looks at these revolutionary figures and exclaims,

"Ah! Such poise...such geniusness!"

And here I lay, in one of the most ungenius, unladylike, pathetic looking positions yet to be seen, and if someone were to paint a portrait of me and hang it in an art museum besides Aristotle and Socrates, the common passer by would be disgusted with the entire human race completely.

But just wait until you hear the next part!

I think I might be a genius.

Ah! Now I've done it! You're probably laughing hysterically. Infact, you've probably laughed so hard and with such intense gusto that you are now lying on the floor dead, having drowned in your own unquenchable laughter like when you're being tickled and the tickle convict refuses to stop, sucking all the oxygen housed in the crevices of your lungs.

But if you're still alive, hear me out.

I know titling myself as a genius is an awfully bold and even more, conceited, thing to do. I'll admit when I said it, I felt the index finger of pride and the middle finger of vanity crawl up my back like a two legged spider.

But like Peter Pan always exclaimed.

"Conceited?! Not me. It's just that I am what I am, and I'm me!"

Conceited you say? Perhaps, but I cannot tell a lie.