Jim Gilmore’s Reality
You can’t do this, they tell me. You’re too weak, they tell me. Do like Bob Ehrlich and get the heck out of there, they say. But I don’t listen. I am going to be the next President of the United States, and the only thing stopping me is my own will.
George Pataki sat down, legs crossed, in front of a three-year old girl named Charlotte. There was nothing around them in this room; no windows, nothing on the walls, and only one grey door separate from the blue wallpaper, blue carpet, and blue ceiling. George put his hands up and followed the girl’s motions as she sang her song.
“Patty-cake, patty cake, Baker’s man,” she said in a rhythmic manner. She began swaying her hands back and forth, and George followed her movements. Their hands met; George’s left clapped against Charlotte’s right. The hands separated, and then the opposite hands met, this time George’s right meeting with Charlotte’s left.
“Bake me a cake as fast as you can,” she continued. George could not comply to her request, as he was stuck in a cyclical, roundabout loop of hands clapping. Neither one of them could stop, and it disturbed George. He did not wish to remain like this; stagnant, stuck in a current as he was. However, there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.