In Ten-or-Twenty minutes I am expected to slithe out of my toves and burrow through un-mimsy groves and park myself in a palace of Standing-Around-Alot and Fussing-At-Small-Children. The place is gaurded by a Rocketship and is decorated a very un-glam teal and south-western pink. I get to wear an even more un-glam blue apron or T-shirt with the palace seal upon it.

Of course, the museum of Life and Science, thuroughly post-modern as it pretends to be, would likely not appreciate the antiquated metaphors. But I have been dallying lately in the creation of fine literary conciets. Perhaps I shall share later.

Currently, the question is: blow money on the cool, inflatable, retro rocketship, the masks of wolf and white tiger, or do the responsible thing and save the impending paycheck for the coming roomate-drought and the abundance of bills.

I think that I will...

<<agé chose>>

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