I like to think of myself as someone who has limitless patience. Old lady digging through her purse while I'm ringing her out trying to find the exact amount of change using the smallest denomination of coins possible? I can handle that. Kids at the school refuse to take quizzes until all of the glitter which has contaminated the entire room is off the page, requiring me to coax him into believing that the glitter will not harm his score? Bring it on. But right now?
No.
You're taking too long to answer my question, I'm going to fire another, more challenging one your direction. It's too hot in my room, I'm going to plug in five fans and sit on a block of ice (or move somewhere with snow. Right now.) You're hogging sink time for .5 seconds beyond your allotted amount, you best believe I'll be shoving you on the ground. (I'm not really that violent. Or that crazed about sink times. Who really does that? Ah, yeah, Billy, you've been standing at the sink for .738 seconds too long. We're going to have to deduct .293 seconds off of your sink time for tonight. Sorry bout your luck, Billy.)
Surprisingly, my patience was not running thin at my sister's two-hour long awards ceremony this evening. But as soon as we made it home, the toilet wasn't flushing fast enough, my water wasn't filling my glass quick enough, the oil on my face wasn't secreting in near the amounts that it should (also a lie. It's doing quite a splendid job at that right now...) I'm not reading my homework as quickly as I would like. The goats aren't catching me properly to break my fainting-fall.
All I want is to go running without having to go running. Does that make sense? I think it does.
Showing posts with label goats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label goats. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
To the Love of Your Life
Fully aware of the fact that we have never met, I must first address our future (far, far away as it may be.) We will spend it joyously, watching our children whip our grandchildren as they disobey them for the millionth time. We will take great pride in raising our offspring with such militaristic mindsets (nothing makes me happier than this, you will tell me over and over.) "But," you will tell me, "I hate to watch them cry. We should cease this activity in the quickest way possible." I will walk to the barn, just east of the scolding, and fashion one of our 23 pygmy goats with a leash. As Rowan (the goat) and I promenade through the yard, you will sing a song, carrying melodies only the great Eddie Money could dream into existence. At once, our grandchildren will behave, and all shall be merry again around the dinner table (set with cold apple pie, pecan pie, steak, potatoes, and other tasty treats.)
Looking back from this point, however, perhaps I should introduce myself. I am nobody, yet everybody you will ever wish to meet. I am like you, only slightly less Canadian (eh?), not as artistic (my historical characters could never hope to compete with what you create), and lacking in the lady parts. I am, your future husband.
Convincing you of this matter means little to me, as of now, for I have traveled to the future. I have seen that we reside together in a small log cabin (which I cleverly crafted by hand. Thank me later with sexual acts.) We have goats, giant donkeys, and mules (thank me later with sexual acts.) We make love regularly (thank me now with sexual acts.) We complain about growing old, while silently, we look forward to the grumpiness accompanied with age. We bicker, we fight, we cook, we smile, we laugh; you tell jokes, I tell lame stories with no point. Our existence is important only within the confines of the cabin (did I mention I publicly humiliate you into destroying your entire comic business? Minor detail, of course.)
There is, as I have hinted at, no escaping. You have 24 hours to reply to this confession of love. If you reply with a "yes" to my question of marriage, I will greet you on donkey, carrying you away into the rain. If you reply with a "no," I will greet you on mule, being sure he kicks you, but nonetheless, taking you as my own. If you choose to not reply, I will greet you on the backs of 17 pygmy goats (I'm quite clever at my ability to harness them together and create a sort of pygmy walking carpet) (did someone say "skills"?) You have no choice.
Pleasure to finally be talking to you. Pack quickly.
Looking back from this point, however, perhaps I should introduce myself. I am nobody, yet everybody you will ever wish to meet. I am like you, only slightly less Canadian (eh?), not as artistic (my historical characters could never hope to compete with what you create), and lacking in the lady parts. I am, your future husband.
Convincing you of this matter means little to me, as of now, for I have traveled to the future. I have seen that we reside together in a small log cabin (which I cleverly crafted by hand. Thank me later with sexual acts.) We have goats, giant donkeys, and mules (thank me later with sexual acts.) We make love regularly (thank me now with sexual acts.) We complain about growing old, while silently, we look forward to the grumpiness accompanied with age. We bicker, we fight, we cook, we smile, we laugh; you tell jokes, I tell lame stories with no point. Our existence is important only within the confines of the cabin (did I mention I publicly humiliate you into destroying your entire comic business? Minor detail, of course.)
There is, as I have hinted at, no escaping. You have 24 hours to reply to this confession of love. If you reply with a "yes" to my question of marriage, I will greet you on donkey, carrying you away into the rain. If you reply with a "no," I will greet you on mule, being sure he kicks you, but nonetheless, taking you as my own. If you choose to not reply, I will greet you on the backs of 17 pygmy goats (I'm quite clever at my ability to harness them together and create a sort of pygmy walking carpet) (did someone say "skills"?) You have no choice.
Pleasure to finally be talking to you. Pack quickly.
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