Would it be too much of me to ask y'all to just kill me now and get it over with?
If not that, would someone please buy me the winning lottery ticket so I don't have to dance like a semi-retarded monkey to the beat of everyone ELSE'S drum to make a living? This retarded monkey wants to dance to her own "special" rhythms, and soon.
Why couldn't I have picked a career that would have let ME be in charge? Why did I think it would be a great idea to go into a field that relied on me actually listening to what other people say instead of finding a job in which I am the preacher, the soothsayer, the approver or rejector?
Dance, monkey, dance!
4 hours Saturday (once the comments came in). 9 hours yesterday. 4 hours already today, and it's not even 9 a.m.
Spin around, monkey, now JUMP!
HIGHER, monkey! Higher!
But I dare say it won't ever be high enough, this time around. The peanut is always just out of reach.
Funny monkey, dance!
Unless something awesome and wondrous happens tomorrow and Wednesday, there will be no posts. Tiff is flying away on business (I'm a flying monkey! woot!) and will be hard pressed to wedge in the time for an update, though God knows she (I?) wants to.
Oh, there's a new addition to our family.
His name is Luther.
He is a fish.
I did not name him.
He is a Japanese fighting fish (a "beta," for all y'all in the ichthyology know), and is swimming around in his glass vase on the kitchen table as we speak. He is staring at me from amongst the root of the prayer plant that adorns the roof of his little world, making me feel guilty for not feeding him more than the 2 to 4 pellets of food that are recommended by the manufacturer.
But I've got HIS number. I know that if he continues to make that moopey fish face at me, all's I have to do is prop up a mirror next to his glass home, showing him that we have ANOTHER fish that, curiously, looks just LIKE him, and he goes absolutely batshit crazy.
Luther HATES the other fish. The other fish means clear and present danger, and it's all Luther can do to not LEAP out of his vase, gill plates a-flappin' and put the findown on that other interloper.
But, suddenly, the enemy disappears, as if some giant unseen hand came and swept him away. It's a hydrous miracle, by Neptune! Lower the gill plates, Captain, everything's going to be fine - LUTHER'S saved the day, yet again.
Then I bet he forgets about being hungry, and probably just wishes there were some fine fishy beeyotches around to see his victorious ol' purple self swim around like the MAN he is.
Sorry Luther, but that ain't happenin' anytime soon. Heck, with those flappy frilly fins, I'm not sure if it's beeyotches you're looking for anyhow.
It's clear I've been awake far too long. Until next time, y'all take care!