I have an uncanny knack of kicking myself in the testicles whenever I jump up from lying on the floor. (Reasons for lying on the floor: i) It's half the price of sodomy and twice the fun. ii) I feel closer to my good buddies, the insects. iii) Jesus told me too. iv) Drip. v) Good books, good back, good music, failure of alliteration). I'm not quite sure what the action is that causes this - it's always too fast, and once it happens I'm in too much shock to notice - all I know is my right heel gravitates towards my right testicle like a mother to a flame.
The obvious answer is, like Marcel Marceau said, a subconscious self-hatred causing me to contort myself solely to cause pain and nausea. And of course it's just the nausea that upsets me because pain, like life, doesn't exist. The slightly less obvious answer is that I'm immensely proud of my testicles, and as much as I'd love to tell you all about them, I'm too shy. My subconscious (being the devious little weasel that it is) kicks me in the testicles, confuses me, dominates my thoughts for the day, and I pass these thoughts on to you. I get to talk about my testicles, maintain my latent shyness and you get to ooh and ahh with delight at the pretty fireworks. I'd like to think, though, that I know myself better than my so-called subconscious. Obvious answers are wrong, in much the same way as wasps. I don't kick myself in the testicles because I hate myself, nor because I'm proud of them, and anyone who says otherwise is gonna have to tangle with a bunch of fives.
We are often told, most notably by Lewis Carroll, that an alternate world exists on the other side of mirrors. (That's what through the looking glass means; looking glass is a synonym for mirror. Bet you didn't know that did you?) Be careful. The only world you will enter if you try to stick your hand through a mirror is a world of bloodied hospital treatment. The answer, as you might have guessed, is to enter the mirror testicles first. Imagine my surprise (if the mental picture isn't too much for you) when soothing my aching testicles on a cool, refreshing mirror, to discover them vanishing into an alternate universe.
Naturally I followed my testicles, and found the other option. It's not much better than here, with only one real difference: there are no women. It's hard to pass through a mirror ovaries first, in fact damn near impossible. Any women who make it past the mirror are captured by the border guards and stretched and squashed until they are men. Not a pleasant sight. Why this happens? I wasn't there long enough to find out. I have morals; I left as soon as I knew what was going on. I'd like to think if the rôles were reversed that you'd do the same for me. I appreciate, however, that different people have different morals to me; anyone who wishes to make me an offer for my mirror - one careful owner, average or better testicular hygiene - then you know where to find me. It might make sense to experiment with other mirrors before shelling out the big bucks as they all might be a portal to a misogynistic world - then again they might not be, and all your mirrors will be left with embarrassing sweaty prints. And that's all you get to hear about my testicles. For now at least.