Horses hate me and want to hurt me. The awful truth first dawned on me when I was but a wee lad on one of those pony rides you see in supermarket parking lots. The little pony wasn't supposed to be able to spit out his bit, and rear up, and throw me to the pavement. But he did it anyway, and every subsequent encounter with one of those malicious beasts has been similarly distressing.
Of course, Craig couldn't have known this when he attached that comment to one of my recent monologues. He couldn't have known it would cause me to shake and cry, and vomit in my lap. But then, fear is a peculiar thing, especially when it's given free reign on the dappled pastures of my dreams.
Anyway, the resulting nightmare galloped and snorted her way through my subconscious mind until dawn, when the first rays of sunlight brought my nocturnal howling to a stop. I'm still a little hoarse, so I'm planning to spend the rest of the day coating my throat, and suppressing any lingering desire to emit inexcusable puns.
That is all.