The Fantasy of the Ring
by Will Bailey
Ring me up. I’m not talking about the online impulse purchase I just made, which I regretted before I even turned on my computer (I got that feeling that I was about to do something very, very stupid (I get that feeling a lot, actually (like, almost non-stop (in fact, I’m getting it right now (but is that because I keep using parentheticals? (probably (wow, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten this deep (it’s pretty cool down here, ya’ll)))))))). No, I’m talking about rings, as in the kind you wear on your finger, or, if you are hip and/or a Duke, fingers. Alas, I am neither hip nor a Duke, but I still wish I could wear as many rings as could be jammed onto my unwieldy sausage fingers. Why, you ask? Because when you wear lots of rings, you are sending the world a message that, at some point in your life, past, present or future, a person less powerful than yourself is going to kiss them. I’m not saying who, or why, I’m just saying that a person who wears tons of rings knows what’s up: his or her rings. And what’s down is the footsoldier or errand boy who has made a terrible mistake and must kiss each and every ring to right their wrongs. Also, wearing multiple rings would protect my hands in a pair of chain-mail gauntlets, of sorts. This stave off attacks from dragons, or, you know, Cat.