Explaining Things

The problem is I like to explain things. For example, if a door hits someone in the face, I forcefully describe the events that led to his or her being cracked. First, you were in your own little world -- a nice enough one, yes, with all your exes frolicking naked in a meadow -- but you weren't paying attention to the heavy wood thing in front of you. Second, you forgot to put your hands in front of you to stop the speedy motion of the door. Your instincts for self preservation had been temporarily turned off when you noticed a twenty dollar bill on the ground, one I had placed to test you. Then, lastly, you were unable to dodge the impact. If you had played football for many years like your father had wanted, you might've been able to jump away then score a touchdown. Or if a basketball player, your dad's second choice, you might've been able to dunk the doorknob into the room. So, now you sit, bloody and unhappy, and I'm telling you your faults and my mission: to test every human being's special reflex skills. If I run away fast enough, I'll be able to quiz the travelers in the Metro; I'll input my own messages and times into the display, see who's fooled and goes in the wrong direction.