Sometimes,
a good deed can make you wish you weren’t inherently nice. Like the time I took
my 6 year old cousin to the zoo, as a favor for my aunt. It was all perfect
until the kid told his mum excitedly about Mr. Eight. “Mum, It was so cool! Mr.
Eight even showed us his testicles!” It
took half an hour to explain to his dazed mother that Mr. Eight was an octopus
at the zoo and another half to convince her that her son meant ‘tentacles’ and
no one had taught him that word. I have a feeling my aunt still doubts that I
took her son to the zoo. And if my li’l cousin ever decides to recount what was
happening in the baboon pen, I might never be allowed near kids anymore. It’s not
my fault the baboons were in heat that day!
During my extended blogging hiatus, I’d been
looking for inspiration, something to get me writing again. It was really just
an excuse to put it off for a while longer. Annoyingly enough, I found plenty
of inspiration. So I stopped looking and accepted the fact that I’d become a
sloth. Somehow, being a sloth was even more tiring. Who knew thinking about doing something could be as exhausting as actually doing it? I sprained my wrist just thinking about playing tennis, and I don't even play tennis! It's possible that I'd broken the sloth code by aspiring to do something new and healthy, and my body was making sure it had the perfect excuse to avoid the exercise. Kinda like what my brother did to get out of gym class. I guess it was a blessing in disguise. When I did play tennis for the first time, I smacked myself in the face with the racket's frame. It hurt to even complain. :x
-NH
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