[GIVEAWAY] My birthday!

Happy birthday, Dufne! Congrats on many wonderful years of life, and here's to many more. Thank you so much for hosting this! Here's my first (and maybe only) description of what I would do if you threw a balloon at me.

_->O<-_

Ah, what would I do, should Dufne throw a balloon at me?

You see, I am a friendless creature. When I walk, I walk alone; my thoughts are all I have to occupy me.

And yet, here, from the darkness, as though a gift from the wind itself, comes a balloon. A lone face, nay, a lone light in the darkness of my isolation.

I do not care what a friend is filled with, be it blood or bones or water or air; physical composition is not what makes the human. A human is defined by its own spirit and being, its own personality or soul; and others may shape it in their own eyes as they see fit. Should I wish to see my brother as an enemy, I may do so and indeed fall by my own folly at his hands, but should I wish to see him as a friend, he will be my greatest ally.

Now, in my loneliness, I would indeed look at this balloon and choose to see it not as a simple vehicle of light and air; no, it flies with spirit and joy, sailing forward in a boundless arc of positivity, serene and buoyant in my rapidly sinking world. I choose to see it not as a balloon, but as a friend.

However, despite my forwardness of thinking and my philosophy to this effect, I understand that society, whatever my own thoughts, follows its own rules. To society, my dear new friend the balloon, so fortuitously thrown at me, is just a balloon in its current state. I will appear to be but a child at the zoo, crying out for mama below a balloon bought hurriedly for 25 cents at a nearby stand. Thus, I must show the world that this balloon, this friend, is truly as human as anyone, for I decree it so.

I would dress him in distinguished hat, tie, spectacles, and glued on mustache; perhaps a suit jacket if it's brisk in season. I would name him, for without names we are nothing; perhaps Stewart, or Alfredo. Perhaps Wilson, after that esteemed volleyball that so too rose to the ranks of humankind; this balloon shall be to me as Wilson was to Tom Hanks, a friend and companion as human as any.

I of course do not stop there. I shall feed my balloon each morning, gingerly bumping spoonfuls of air into its ever-closed mouth, shall take it on walks, leading it by the string as a man does a dog (for, after all, what is a dog but man's best friend? Humans are not the only companions available; perhaps I should dress him in a collar rather than clothes and find him to be a much more effusively loving friend to me), shall go so far as to buy him a little bed and Christmas gifts around the holidays.

Yes, I would treat this balloon as though he were my very best human friend; and so he would be. Through my efforts, I would give him life and legacy, and he would give me something even better: love.

I will wait for you always, my dear balloon. When you come, when the great hand of the Being called Dufne hurls you as though by fate itself into my arms, I will be ready, and my arms spread for you.

See you then, my friend.

You know, that response took actual effort. It's summer... I'm not supposed to be using effort.

Counterbalance guess to return me to my normal summer state: I would take that stoopid balloon, pop it with my big ol' hands or a big ol' shiny needle–OO SHINY! HOLY CRAP SO PRETTEEEE!!!! Wait, where was I? Oh!–pick up all the stinky dumb pieces, wad them up into a real tight little ball, and throw it right in your stoooooooopid face! Hah!



That'll teach you to throw a balloon at me!