use these words in a story: dragging, kitchen, bedroom, sofa, albert Einstein, closet, eggbeater, olive oil, eight (8), rain
mod note: this is usually my wheelhouse. but there is no more water at the mill.
Albert Einstein should feel triumphant. he has conquered the Nazis and is the smartest person who has ever lived. but he does not. as he closes the pineapple drapes of his kitchen in the morning, a sense of profound dread enters his logical soul.
Albert: the more and more i further outward discovering the mechanics of the universe, the lonelier i get. there are no more humans anymore i can have a chat with. no one understands my thinking. no one will ever be at my level again. i am isolated. it's like i have the keys to the Ferrari but the garage door is locked.
the sheets in his bedroom smell of stale french fries. but he hasn't had french fries since before he fled the old country. he goes upstairs to peel one grape.
Albert: i have solved the secret of the universe. i invented the formula which boils it all down to one equation. so why do i feel so empty inside? *sigh*
his neighbors think him cruel, standoffish, and aloof. but he is just shy. Albert gets no visitors to his mansion in the Hollywood Hills. no one understands his accented English. one time Buscemi hopped the gate but he claimed he was doing research for a title role. that biography was almost crowdfunded. you sometimes see Wendy Williams waving in the driveway fountain but i think she just wants to buy the property.
the doorbell rings. not much can drag Albert away from his cable news, but this is it. it's the only person who ever walks up to his entrance and gives him something, the kindly old mail lady who hands him his mail and a piece of her mind.
Albert: hello. excuse me while i enter my closet. it's just to get a sweater. there's a draft ever since you opened the door. any good stuff?
mail lady: just bills. your college loans are due.
Albert: those are never meant to be paid off, are they? they're designed that way. what is your name?
mail lady: Alberta.
Albert: see? it's fate. the fate of the stars.
Alberta: there is one mystery of the universe you have yet to solve, Mr. Einstein.
she was right. later that night Albert builds up enough gumption to give a letter back to Alberta. his pen is leaking courage.
that vinegary potato smell is really starting to haunt him. what is that? chips under the bed?
the next morning Alberta comes with his mail and Albert hands Alberta the note. it reads:
the mystery of love. look, you have nice legs in your mail-lady shorts, okay? i said it.
Albert: care to come in? i'm not much of a breakfast guy but...
Alberta: but my duty...
Albert: sorry, out of bran muffins. but there's olive oil and Eggbeaters liquid egg and 8 eggs in the fridge on the stove. help yourself. Eggbeaters, what a terrible name for a food.
Alberta: it's raining, i better go.
Albert: please, have a seat on the sofa. i'm really not rude, i'm just socially awkward cos i'm a genius.
Albert begins drawing on the back of her envelope.
Alberta: oh my! what are those? two huge as-yet-undiscovered moons?
Albert: those ain't moons...
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