This week’s madlib comes from an old nemesis of mine. Truly one of the classics, I think the tendency to require reading of this heavy work in early high school here in the US ruins it for a great many people, which is a shame.
Call me Adam Rodriguez.
Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my cantaloupe, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would bash about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the zombie. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the flying space monkeys; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before zepplin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately munching into the street, and methodically knocking people’s brains off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his Overlord of Doom; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the popsicle with me.
Shéa MacLeod has dreamed of writing novels since before she could hold a crayon. She totally blames her mother. All those trips to the library as a child were bound to warp a person. Shéa is the author of urban fantasy scifi post-apocalyptic paranormal romance with a twist of steampunk. Originally from Portland, Oregon, she now lives in London near a cemetery. Which explains a lot.