I submitted my mellifluous, stunningly hatched piece of ennui-birthed prose to the illustrious Bulwer-Lytton Bad Fiction contest:
Wallace was transfixed upon her frame: She whirled, arms embracing the air like flaccid leeks, her buttocks squeezing rhythmically to an early 1980's beat...his eyes stung with hot abandon as he watched her neck sprout congealed barnacles of moisture, her torpid expression reflecting some distant memory; indeed, his imagination bloated with the thought of her - but suddenly, his runaway reverie was interrupted - and she alighted the Nordic Track in a belching heave.
