Mmmm, Yes.

This pilates ball feels scrumptious on my Ass.

Like my Ass just got ordered and served hot from a piece of baking stonewear. The pilates ball placed an order for my Ass and got it. Got the whole thing; my whole Ass.

I like the way the pilates ball holds me, gently, pushing me up, uplifting me.

I love the delicate equilibrium of the amount of 'give' that it delivers to my ass--so delicate that a slight rest or resignation of any of my bodyweight onto the top of the table is given a significant response. Habitual posture is for breakfast, along with peanut butter, a banana, some not-what-I-would-call-burnt toast, a few chunks of cooked chicken-eggie, and a short glass of milk from a cow. A female cow. What the cows are drinking for breakfast, heck, I don't know. S'pose I could ask, but they would probably just resent it.

This is why I don't live in a barn. That isn't true, it's just that barns are just uncomfortable, at least when they are outfitted for cows. I only drink organic cow milk. You can taste the bleach and oher chemicals in the regular stuff. Organic just tastes like cows' titties. Who's titties the cows are tastin' on, well, that is a mystery.

I like how sitting on this ball makes me engage my whole spine, relax my neck, abs, shoulders and lower back. My heart melts away with a deep breath and my body remains, solid, strong, like an ancient pillar, with an infintesimal past and infinite future, climbing forever closer to heaven in every direction.

I'm going for a bike ride, ride by some cows.