Santa Buffalo

I had to read a short story for my creative writing class, and in it, a man tortured a baby water buffalo. I found the story very upsetting. The next day, I was in the car with my boyfriend. I was driving, and he was in the passenger’s seat next to me. I was babbling at him and singing to the radio, and generally being self-centered and loud, while he nodded and sort of half listened to what I was saying. Then, as we drove up a semi-busy street, he turned to me, and solemnly said, “We have a guest,” and I said something brilliant and witty, like, “Huh?”

I looked over at him (which was safe because I was at a stoplight) and there on his (massive) hand, he had a tiny yellow ladybug. “Oh,” I said. “Huh. Where’d you get him?”

“I dunno, he must have been on campus.”

“Oh.” I’m so clever.

“I’m going to let him go once we stop.”

And that’s why I love him (my boyfriend, not the bug). Because he held that little bug gently (and watched it with the utmost fascination) the whole half hour we were in the car, and then with great care, he put it down on a leaf. I love that he doesn’t even kill bugs, and that he not only doesn’t kill them, but he was considerate enough of it’s tiny insect feelings that he let the lady bug go once the car was stopped, rather than let it go while we were moving.

The waitress at the restaurant where my dad and I had breakfast this morning was way, way too chipper. She really did have one of those I’m-so-happy-I-must-be-a-serial-killer vibes going on.

I am wearing a hat with llamas on it.

I failed at NaNoWriMo and I failed hard. I managed to hit one fifth of the words I was hoping for, which is wildly disappointing to me, but this way, if I get two fifths next year, I guess I’m doing twice as good. We’ll see how that goes.

I have also fallen and fallen hard for Eartha Kitt’s version of ‘Santa Baby.’