Oh hello to you all as I welcome you to one more of my mantasy-related columns. As I continue to write these things, I get to know you all and you get to know me. This is making me quite the popular person around my neighbor's hood.

Just this week, I was allowed to meet five young men all in one day, though it is not as joyous of a thing as you might think. In the shortened form of this story, these boys came across me as I walked from my car to my class.

They said they recognized me from my website picture and that they did not think I was a very nice person for sharing my mantasies all of the time. I calmly replied to them that I cannot control my mantasies and that writing about them is like a therapy for me. They laughed and one of them, who was wearing a tucked-in shirt with no belt and obviously possessed no fashion skills, pushed me down on the ground! And then they all laughed and began giving each other the highest of high fives.

They walked away and I stayed on the ground for many minutes until I could no longer hear their laughing. While I was on the ground, perhaps I had hit my head a little or perhaps the heat from the parking lot pavement was overwhelming, but a mantasy appeared to me in full color and sound.

I remember this mantasy very well because it was one of my only mantasies that included a man actually touching me. This man was handsome and exquisite in his muscles area and I found him walking in the middle of a very terrific grassy field.

He happened to not be wearing a shirt and not much pants, either, and he approached me and smiled. He pointed toward a tree that had a blanket and picnic supplies underneath it. A romantic picnic under a real tree! Can you beat that, Manuelle asks you.

So he lightly brushed against my arm as we walked to the picnic tree, which left me feeling very exotic. But then he did a rather queer thing. He produced from behind himself a large stick that he immediately used with much force to hit me in the same arm that he had just so gingerly touched.

The hurting of my arm made me awaken from my mantasy, only to find that a car had run over my arm as I lay on the ground dreaming. I made haste to visit the doctor as soon as I could. He said that my hand would be broken quite a bit for quite a while and that I could not teach any aerobics that involved the use of hands. So my girls will all have toned legs and flabby arms for the next few weeks.

If I could find those boys who pushed me down or the car who rolled over me, I would wrap my hands about their necks! They ruined my picnic, my career, and almost my column!

Even now I am able only to type this with my one good hand and the elbow of my broken hand’s arm. This is very difficult and painful, so I will have to be done with this for now.

Boo-bye to you who love me and a frown to all of you who don’t!