10 February 2009
I tried counting sheep
1, 2, 3... 4.. 5,6... 7...
But traffic patterns were erratic, and a few confused sheep caused a wooly pile-up.
Somewhere, I started singing Happy Birthday.
I wonder, when this fever has completely usurped my conscious, if it will put up roadsigns: reduced sheep-limit, no ewe-turns, soft shoulders ahead.
...Happy birthday, dear Cathy... who is Cathy?
I scraped my brain for some remnants of coherent thought and made from it a trebuchet to help with the sheep launch.
34... . . 35... . .. 36.. . . 37... .
At which point I ran out of sheep, and the large Over-the-Moon Black and White was called on to substitute, then a killer whale swam underneath.
Yin and Yang.
like that ad in Modern Bride for a 40 ft cake platter, 41 ft cake platter, 42 ft cake platter...
I woke up several hours later, cold and sweating and still counting.
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2 comments:
No fun, Mallory! I hope you feel better soon!
wow, i haven't read your stuff in awhile mal, but you have matured a lot as a writer!
or maybe it's just cause you're sick :). creative writers abuse substances for a reason, you know...
but seriously, i like this a lot.
AND I LOVE YOU
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