"I want a fuzzy comfy chair." That was the rat's first words of wisdom XD representing demands from the material world, maybe when you get intelligence you get more stuck in this physical temporary state? nah, he just wanted a chair. ANYWAYS. Then there was a man who turned into a woman, then died. I don't know why, but he/she did. It was very random. Usually I'd remember more, but I don't. I do remember something about a ferry boat, but that's about it. WHY DO I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY ON HERE? WHY? DIDN'T ANYTHING INTERESTING HAPPEN TO ME TODAY? HAVE I JUST RAN OUT OF INSPIRATION OF MY DAILY TYPINGNESS? I AM CONFUSED AT THE STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES RIGHT NOW! I DON'T WANT TO READ THINGS I WROTE A MINUET AGO. I WANT TO TYPE IN WORDS AND FORGET WHAT I SAID SO IT CONFUSES EVERYTHING. WHATEVER. EHGH.
Okay. Well, once upon a time there was a short man with a very large nose. He was very underrated, like writing and bananas. Nobody took the time to see how awesome he was or how hard he worked at trying to be everybody's "adequate." Then when he was a young child of age seven, he nearly died. Then he lived, and nearly died again. Then he got so sick that he nearly died for about two years straight. It was a terrible drag, but durring that time he found his one true talent. He practiced that talent, with biscuit tins and driftwood when he was thirteen years old. He wanted to be beyond "adequate", and not some poor stupid little boy with no money and no future. So, he got himself a job to make some money. He was doing okay, earning some pay. It was fine. "Adequate". Then something happened- People asked him to join them so he could use his talent! There was no guarentee- if they didn't make it he might be even worse off than before- No money, no house, no job... But he did have his talent... Would he take the chance? Leave his adequate, comfortable life? What would you do? Take the risk or play it safe? He went along to the city of Hamburg, taking that risk, or else I wouldn't have anything to type about today. He went from adequate to bold. He changed his name and was on the road, playing in clubs in a country that he barely spoke the language of. But he survived, he looked tough with his grey streak of hair and his large nose, at a glance you would be affraid of him. That's what another man thought at first. This man was actually only a boy at the time, pretending to be older so he could folow his dream, use his talent. He was a tall skinny boy with dark eyes and hair slicked back, distracting from his young face. He looked at the other man with the grey streak, he was the drummer of another band, a popular band. The boy looked at the drummer with wide eyes while he played riffs on his brand new guitar, he would sit there, bottle in hand and request a song with his low voice.
"Play somethin' slow." he said, then lifted his bottle to his lips again.
"What should we play, Georgie? I'm outta ideas here." The oldest of the three turned to him, he was the leader, a rough tough rebel named John, but behind his leather jacket and his cool smirk he was a near sighted poet with a soft side, but he didn't let on about it.
"I think I've got an idea, guys." Paul, the bass player turned to them with his brown doe eyes. He was the attractive one of all of them, more refined, and maybe had more of an idea of what he was doing musically. The others would soon develop their talents though.
Paul whispered something to George, who caught on immeadiatley and started a riff on his rickenbacker. George looked back at the man, sitting alone, who looked back at him with his deep blue eyes in awe.
"I've never heard that one before... What do ya call it?"
"In spite of all the danger." John said, squinting at the sad looking drummer's face.
"Who does it?"
"We do." Paul replied, with a smile.
"You wrote it? It's great!" The drummer smiled, "I've seen you guys around- you're real good!"
"Thanks, you're Rory's drummer, ain't you?" John asked, getting himself a bottle of beer.
"Yeah, you can call me Ringo."
"Ringo! You do Starr time!" Paul blurted out, and Ringo's smile grew
"Yeah, that's me, Rory Storm's drummer, so where's your drummer?"
"He's gone." George said, glaring at the door that Pete had exited before.
"Left to get drunk, or somethin', at least that's what I got from it. I don't get it, you can get just as drunk here for free!"
"But you've got to play, Paul, he didn't wanna play. Besides- we don't need him right now." John said, tuning his warn guitar.
"Well, if you guys need a drummer, I could fill in." Ringo got up and walked over to the dusty drum kit.
"No, no- You're Rory's drummer- are you sure you can do that?"
"Oh, I do it all the time, just the drummer, y'know." he sat at the drums and picked up the drumsticks. "Play me a riff, George!" The short man with the blue eyes had taken his first steps to go from adequate to bold to phenominal. Those four boys from Liverpool would soon beocome fabulous in the eyes of countless all across the globe.
YAYS! I liked that. Well, hope you enjoy my short little story about Ringo, PEACE AND LOVE, PEACE AND LOVE, AND I AM NOW 5174 DAYS OLD!!! =D
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