I think self-help books are funny. The advice is always just a bit too positive, there is always an excess of exclamation points, and the titles are far too conspicuous.
Which is why I’ve decided to write one.
It’ll be a work of genius. I’ll save people around the world with my writing! I may even be nominated for sainthood.
Though what I’d really like is to be knighted. I already took fencing lessons, which I assume is a prerequisite. Think I was pretty good, too.
At least the teacher was afraid when I had a sword in my hand.
But I musn’t get ahead of myself. First I must practice what I plan to preach.
Which is why today I decided to make a list of all the things I want in life.
When I was done, I had three dog breeds, five actors, and about eighteen potential horse names.
I think I might need some reevaluation.
Society is a frightening place; I never live up to its expectations.
It is not my fault I am prone to interpretive dance.
Within society exists two categories of people. I politely refer to them as People I Would Like to Talk To and People That Frighten the Bejezus Out of Me.
Unfortunately, the latter seems to be far more common than the former. This group includes midgets, men with large mustaches, and women carrying briefcases.
Strangely, people always seem to be very prone to talk to me. My mother has the same problem, so I can only assume it is some kind of hereditary illness that draws people to us like suicidal moths to flames.
Mom’s a lot better at handling it, though. She’s got all the right listening noises, and backs away slowly enough to avoid suspicion.
Me? Well, I’m still in Society Training.
When strangers approach me unexpectedly, I go into Defense Mode. It involves a lot of blinking and the occasional twitch.
Usually gets rid of ‘em pretty quick.
Now I must depart. I’ve discovered a moth on my clock, and must discuss a plan of action with the Round Table.
Goodnight, Interweb.
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