Since Times Medieval

Hello, all. So nice to see you again. I can't actually see you, but I'm sure you're all very smart, attractive and successful if you've chosen to read this. I am in excruciating pain right now. I am lying prone on my bed, staring (in typical drunk-Craig fashion, though I'm sickeningly sober) at my ceiling. My skin is on the verge of peeling and most readers might be surprised to find that I somehow manage to look white as hell, yet rather similar to a lobster, my prodigious red beak (or in lobster-reference, the rostrum) taking the brunt of the UV rays. Whenever I close my eyes, I am subject to blazing white-orange coronas. Wow, I should really stop looking at my ceiling light. I cannot move and don't have a reason to. I convince myself that this is all well worth the trouble. And it is! I'm going to get ridiculous-tan. And bigger. I don't know if any of you have ever seen muscles, but let me tell you, I am quite the specimen, appearing to most as a bulging, rippling hill. This simile works, too, since I'm covered in grass much of the time. But not the sweet leaf, really. Not the chronic. Nor the 'dro. Nor the dodey. Not even that bammer weed. What I mean to say is that I am blighted with chronic grass-stains. Oh yes, my muscles. Please do not let me get off the subject again. It's important that the reader understand how huge I am. It's like looking at the chassis of a Thunderbird. In fact, you're invited to call me "Thunderbird" whenever you like. I'm pretty sure the chassis is the part of the car that looks like a muscle or multiple muscles. Or -get this, young people- we could just say that I straight-up look like a muscle car. All red and muscle-bound. Wait, perhaps a Thunderbird is a muscle car. I could very well have fucked that up. I could "Wikipedia it" or "Google it"... nah, I'd rather not do the research. You will all just have to settle for being misinformed. This comes standard with a C. Phillips friendship. It all comes standard. Besides, I already looked up the scientific term for a lobster's "nose", so that's the most effort you'll get out of me. But back to it. If you could see through all the freckles, papercuts, and bruises, you might very well be astounded at how "cut" I am. The good lord above certainly broke the mold when he made me. It totally sucked that he broke it because he had the mold running on auto for such a long time that when this problem came up, he had to completely improvise on my looks. This is because he hadn't seen the products in a while and one must take into consideration the fact that he had been on his lunch break (a long one, at that, because being a god is totally a union gig). Then because of the improvisation, he got a little bit backed up, and his supervisor gave him a bunch of fucking grief. Like, really? Who does that asshole think he is anyway? He sits in his office all day, reading Mad magazine and drinking Rockstars. Then, he thinks it's just fine to come down to the floor and piss and moan about work getting a tiny bit backed up. Just a little? Come on, seriously. Sorry. I had to vent there for a while. About a god that doesn't exist and his terrible job. Really, though? Go to church people. It's like a free reading of The Lord of the Rings and they just give out wine for free. I would attend these events if only they would change the menu from those dirty-looking little wafers to something more delectable like a Rosemary & Garlic Triscuit or a fine imported cheese. Or both. I fucking love food.
Oh yeah, but I'm sunburnt. I know what you are all thinking: "Oh my god, not Craig. Not his beautiful skin. Who am going to rub olive oil on now?" Don't you worry your pretty little heads, ladies and gentlemen. It will turn from red and raw to a golden tan soon enough (well...). Besides, I'm pretty sure I couldn't even pay someone else to rub anything on me. They would -in all likelihood- graciously decline, half out of disgust, half because of the insurance liability. This is perfectly reasonable, but I would be willing to sign a document waving their responsibility in any incorrectly-applied aloe vera or oil cases and/or any effects to my skin resulting from said application. So... form an orderly queue. Right beside the line to my kissing booth and to the IMAX showing of Journey to the Center of the Earth.
I've often been shamed for the shade of white that others are forced to endure around me. My skin, I mean. Though, I wish this to change, I might, on the other hand, like to make an argument for what I would urge you to call fair skin (as opposed to me usually being called pale, white, pasty, and douchebag). From the Middle Ages through much of the Victorian Era, it was considered a sign of great wealth and beauty to have such light skin. So, there you have it. That's my argument. It was better back then. Not only would my looks have been more readily accepted long ago, in times Medieval, but I might also have gotten the opportunity to prove myself by fighting a dragon or two, or pulling Excalibur from it's rocky residence. For some reason or another, very few have been fortunate enough to see dragons around over the past few centuries. I don't understand why someone doesn't hastily add them to an endangered species list before they go the way of the unicorn. Extinct, I mean.
Having made my point, I would like to bring to the readers' collective attention that my appearance or personality (never both simultaneously) have received rave reviews as of late. This is an extraordinary development, as this is usually a bi-annual occurrence. I don't know if the messengers are pulling my leg or any of my other limbs (if so, I rather hope they're at the receiving end of the next front-page zoo tiger mauling), but most of this news has been delivered over the past month or two. I am frequently able to fend off the opposite sex for months or years at a time, my behavior and/or looks having much the same effect as a waved firearm in a public park, if you understand my meaning. Sends the other party running for cover, you know. With this new progress, however, I feel less like a satellite lunch and more like a dinner at a chain restaurant. I am by no means turning into a Casanova or any such thing, but I intend to venture into territories greatly unexplored by yours truly. With a little advice and perhaps a little needed physical force from my good friends and "wing -men and -women", I should soon be bursting forth from my rather unremarkable shell. This new confidence burgeoning bodes well for the reader as there is only one way from the top of one's self-esteem apex and that, mes amis, is down. That was French, for those of you not familiar with the term. I don't have time to translate it for you, because I have much to do and even more to write, but there are several places on the World Wide Web that you're able to find easy-to-use English-to-French translations. As I was saying, down. A graceless buffoon spinning head over heels toward the base of a mountain called "Whoopsydaisy"; that's what visual the thoughts of my future endeavors evoke. Because my shame and embarrassment remain a steadfast constant, regardless of any environmental variables, this should be an exhilirating adventure (once again, for the reader only) and I am most definitely ripe for rejection!

It must be noted that I haven't actually been sunburnt (or at all tan, for that matter) in a long time now. I've actually spent most of my recent time huddled in booths at bars with my friends, taking pictures, subtly flexing my muscles, and successfully hiding my problem skin by never using the flash. You are free to use this little trick, just be sure to give credit where it is due. And by that, I mean the opposite. Don't tell anyone about my bar-pictures technique. It is an integral part of my plan to blend in with non-pale individuals.

Utterly involved in myself,
Craig