Are You Calling Me Fat?

A Day in the Life of a Garbanzo Bean [Rough Draft of my Autobiography]

Monday, March 22, 2010
I've come down with the worst case of senioritis I've ever imagined. Despite persistent efforts to study this weekend, I was forced, by nature of my affliction, to skip around in the sunshine and plant a patio vegetable garden--I enjoy pretending that I'm a hobbit. Anyway, it came to pass this morning that my dog--a rather largish black lab--had a bit of a tussle with a possum sometime in the wee hours. Rather than abandon the task of disposing of the monster to my father or, better yet, my thirteen year old brother who id genetically engineered to enjoy the sight of mangled corpses, I, the seventeen year old girl, was asked to bury the poor ole' chap while my father supervised with the flashlight [since it was still dark out] And, as I laboriously crafted a trench for the lad, I pondered the strange reversal of roles that was taking place--that I should have to tote such a weighty carcass into its earthen casket and give the pest a proper sendoff. Not that I wasn't proud; just call me the Possum Slayer. Since it is Monday, however, I had little time to gloat over my conquest of the dratted thing before time constraints forced me to school [The Dreaded Institution, Via Della Rosa, etc.] where a friend and I discussed the semblance between Keira Knightley, Gandalf the Grey, and a Shetland Pony. More to come--it's only 10 AM. Suffice it to say I'll have more news by High Tea. Pip, pip, cheerio.