i don’t have a bloody title.

Yes, this is my greyhound. Yes, she is bubble-wrapped. I saw bubble wrap. I saw dog. Bryan was busy installing his surround sound. She kinda hung out like that for about 15 minutes when my husband realized what I had done to our dog. I told him I didn’t feel as if I had to explain my art to him.

I don’t have a topic in mind. None. I’m gonna drone on about nothing for a while here so if you don’t wanna read about nuthin’ I suggest you go knit a few burgundy afghans. Three trophies for The Cheat.

I don’t have any trophies. Not even a pizza trophy.

My bamboo needs water again. I’m not mature enough for this level of responsibility. After working all day the last thing I wanna do is water bamboo. I talked to Bryan before we got the bamboo. I told him that our lives were going to change and we were now responsible for something greater than ourselves. He agreed that we were gong to share in the caring and nurturing of the bamboo. Then guess what? I work all day, come home, and where is he? At a Seahawks game! Football?!?!?. He’s off with his buddies having a good ole time with beer and garlic fries while I’m left at home to tend to the bamboo alone. If I wanted to be a single parent I would have bought some bamboo before I knew him. This is bullshit.

Actually, I’m not resentful that he’s at the game. I’m resentful that I’m not.

To Hades with the bamboo.

So I just realized that I myself am thirsty. That means I have to get up. On my feet. Feet don’t work so well. After traipsing back and forth nonstop for 12 hours they’re kinda pissed.

I’m torn between my dislike for dehydration and my feet’s dislike of me.

I’m even too tired to use any creative wording or random vocabulary. What the hell am I doing here? I am not in the right state of mind for this nonsense. Armadilla armadilla.

Voulez-voulez-vous armadilla.


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