Montgomery Peer vs. the Wicked Witch of the West

PART I: The fairytale with a metaphor.
Regardless of her being knighted under satan´s service, and that providing girls will even get knighted in the first place, the Wicked Witch of the West soon took advantage of Peer going through one of those summer doldrums sort-of moments, in which he got around to tinkering with his armor, tessellating the living ceramic-like material into fine, fine chainmail made rigid by spell-casting.
When prompted by the rest of the king´s men where he´d ever got the tech, Montgomery Peer ever the lonely black knight shrugged, smiled and told them “Wikipedia, of course,” but of course that was only half the truth.

So the Witch, being naturally wicked, oozed all her wickedness through the lepton-sized links of Peer´s new armor, past his forcefield and straight into his cerebral cortex. Peer had only recently disclosed his secret identity to the world, see- not that it had been such a secret in the first place- but it made all the difference to the Witch: All of a sudden hitting closer to home never sounded so easy and she never let the hand on her watch leap another second.
If Peer´d ever got around to asking her why, she´d have told him he meddled in a game of gods, and whom gods destroy... you know, all that jazz that drama queens such as Peer were so fond of.

Peer´s two-month fall and his hurting his neck while re-arranging the furniture in his bedroom at 5:30 in the morning fit into a different story altogether. Suffice to say there were dragons but only because here there be et al. I mean, really, nothing you haven´t seen in here before.
Just like with the ingrown toenail or when he practically liquefied the cartilage on his patellae or all those bruised, bleeding knuckles after bloodstained doors and walls and shattered mirrors down through the years. Point is, How many Charles Bronson movies you gotta see before you catch the meaning? This blog´s got a little fairytale on it, I´ll grant you that much, but so little of the Kabbalah, so come on.

Do bear it with me; I mean of course Montgomery Peer found his way around the Witch´s spell; that´s not even the point of this story. Naysayers may even tell you the whole point in having the good guys winning out in the end is like an outlet for Sadism, but... I don´t know. I really don´t and if you want me to be perfectly honest with you on this, it´s just digressing from our part. It really is.
So hey, so there, so back to our story.

PART II: After the fall.
A couple of months later- and this bit really, really happened as described, hence the first-person narration- I was climbing up the stairs to the office (taking the elevator up to the 4th floor feels like overkill) and it was on one of those days it just feels there´s a twenty-ton elephant sitting on your chest because it´s so hard to breathe, akin to having your heart broken times a hundred.
I stopped then leaned my back against the wall and stayed there not moving until the lighting went out and the entire stairway got dark. I took a deep breath despite the aforementioned twenty-tonner, then exhaled. Thought of nothing then thought of everything I should get down to words and up on the blog.

Wanna hear something sad, but pretty funny?
I mean, I did write down everything I wanted upon reaching my desk on the fourth floor, but after re-reading my very heart poured in ink on paper, well, it just made me feel like I started this whole blog a few years ago sounding just like Holly f*cking Golightly wavering between her blues and her reds, and now it just seems like the ending to any episode from the Bear in the Big Blue House, I kid you not.

I bet you got the Capote reference right off the bat but I wonder of your proficiency in matters more Disney Channel-wise. –Ey. Whatever. Anyway, it goes like this: Every time the show ends this bear, which is a Jim Henson bear, goes up to the attic in his big blue house which really isn´t that big if you think about it, and pretty much sums up the entire plot of said episode to his good friend the moon, deftly named Luna. You know, kind of like Smallville with Clark at the barn but sans all the sissy bits involving Lana Lang that tramp.

(Just for the record: I always told you you were my Lyla Lerrol, never a Lois or a Lana).

But really.
Rock bottom happened once I realized my life´d suddenly ended up just like the kiddie TV show I (secretly) watch during breakfast. And there was nothing I could do about it.

PART III: Redemption comes with requesting software access.
So we´d been anxiously waiting for this password for some online application or another at the office in order to get those Methods & Procedures going. It was allegedly automatically generated by the server and fired straight to each of our inboxes upon the completion of an electronic form within the Lotus Notes database that would make Dante´s descent into hell seem like a walk in the park.
But anyhow.
In came the e-mails with our passwords, mine just synched with the Bear in the Big Blue House epiphany and well, you´ve seen those passwords generated by a web server. Mine mixed words and numbers.
It said in Courier 10 font:


I mean. Abjure thirty-seven. Swear to god.
Right at that moment when I was down and out and finished with and ready to give in... and then... out of the blue...

I gasped, obviously, then said “NO, THANK YOU!” out aloud and started giggling for a full ten seconds up until when the girl sitting next to me asked whether my password, like hers, sounded weird and didn´t make any sense.
“Not really,” I told her with the corner of my mouth curling up into a cocky half-smile. “Actually it makes a lot of sense.”

A couple of hours later I was at my usual bathroom stall at the mall, changing my clothes and slipping on my running sneakers: To hell with having hurt my neck and to hell with having my heart broken. To hell with wherever sad people have their breakfast, at Tiffany´s or at the bear´s blue house, and also to hell with choosing not to become a superhero.
I might not know where I´m going, but I sure know how to dent the memetics of the mundane while at it...

MORAL OF THE STORY: End of the day, you freakin´ moronic Wicked Witch of Wherever, you can assemble as many winged monkeys as you see fit and even strap them into the cockpits of F-22s, but you´ll never beat Jungian synchronicity coupled with a guy with a promise etched to his flesh!