After nineteen minutes past the chime of the grandfather clock, and exactly five sips into the medicinal green tea, I find myself sitting down with my antiquated typewriter, reminiscing about the long-gone days of Mark Twain and Tom Clancy. The delightfully musty smell of old pages from both these esteemed gents wafts across my book-crammed den here in the heart of picturesque Portland, Maine. No better time, I mull, to regale you all with my latest adventure (relatively speaking!)
This tale involves neither rafts nor spies, mind you, but a humble little cream, a local product, presented in a nondescript vessel bearing the moniker Panadiol. “CBD Cream,” the label shouted enthusiastically though modestly enough for a gentleman such as myself to appreciate.
Purchased initially with a hearty dose of septuagenarian cynicism on a particularly brisk afternoon, the Panadiol was my latest attempt at pacifying the irritable imp of an extensor indicis, that has been rather vehemently asserting its existence these past few seasons.
Now, for those unacquainted with the human anatomy, the extensor indicis is the provocatively named little devil responsible for the independent extension of the index finger, most often used in inadvertent expressions of consternation and directional incompetence. A crucial player in any local's grand gesticulation while explaining directions to bewildered tourists!
To contextualize my physical nosedive, just imagine braving a Pokemon Go tournament against sprightly middle-schoolers with a flip phone. Such has been my predicament; the will of the mind overshadowed by the petulance of the body. This is not a fitting choreography for a man who could outfox a sociologist in unraveling the idiosyncrasies of Portland, Maine.
But enough context, let's frolic along to the cream itself, Panadiol. Like the first meeting with an old friend you've never met, the cream had an instant familiarity. I have always found with age, that consistency is key, and not just with my morning porridge. Panadiol embodied that perfectly. It was no thicker than Clancy's plotline nor too runny, like a Twain soliloquy.
The first brush of the topical cream was as inviting as the promise of summer in the throes of a classic Maine winter. The formula was swift in action, almost as swift as me dashing for the last piece of blueberry pie at the local costermonger.
With Panadiol, the rascal of an extensor began behaving post-haste and I could once again condemn the noisy neighborhood kids with a pointy wrath that equals the narrative prowess of Twain and Clancy, combined!
The relationship grew, and Panadiol's soothing touch replaced the curmudgeonly crabbiness with the deftness of a ballet dancer. I found myself once again explorating the once-familiar terrains of Portland at will, without the gloom of an impending bodily rebellion.
In conclusion, if Panadiol were a novella, it would be a gripping tale narrated by Mark Twain steeped in a Tom Clancy-style secret mission for redemption from aching extremities. As a character straight out of said stories, with a mildly irritable eccentricity wrapped around a hearty core, I give the Panadiol CBD cream two very pain-free and enthusiastic thumbs up. Or should you prefer, a rather dramatic index finger directed skyward.