I was chuckling to myself as I read about the Le’Veon Bell debacle with the Pittsburgh Steelers. I read a comment that said, “Don’t let him go,” which opened me up to streaming “Don’t Let Him Go” by REO Speedwagon, 1981. I like the song’s hammering insistence of guitars and dreams, and the impassioned pleas, “Don’t let him go.” I later learned the song was supposedly about asking girlfriends to be patient with their boyfriends.
Floofragette
Floofragette (floofinition) – housepet who campaigns for equal rights for the animals.*
In use: “A true floofragette, the beagle was forever campaigning for equal rights and treatments by aping the humans’ activities, like jumping into the bath with them, sleeping beside them on the bed, and sitting at a chair at the dinner table for meals. They became convinced that he thought he considered himself human, not realizing that he knew he was a dog, but saw no reason for him to be treated differently than them.”
Another Robert Said
I must say, he has large pockets. It’s also the advantage computers and Kindles offer; you can have things to read and write as long as you have power.
Of course, that’s their disadvantage, innit?
Reboot
Hearing unfamiliar banging and creaking sounds, he opened his eyes and found the ceiling.
Pink, and swaying. It felt like he was on a boat. Or would that be a ship?
He closed his eyes. Something was hung. Reboot. Try again.
When he next opened his eyes, he was looking at correctly colored sage green walls. Sunlight was streaming in.
Feeling better, he rose to hit the head and discovered a limp. He’d not had that before. As its presence was being digested, he passed the bathroom mirror.
He was female. Not bad looking, about the correct age, forty-five. Same colored hair. Those were starts to being the right person in the right reality.
More to digest.
He continued to the toilet. His cats and dogs must be out of the house. The primary reasons for keeping them was to help keep reality anchored. It didn’t work, if they weren’t around. Ergo, they weren’t around. That’s why his start-ups were hanging.
As he sat to piss, he considered going back to bed to reboot again, but it was already eight thirty. Time was the one constant that didn’t change when a start-up went awry.
Coffee, he decided, wiping, flushing, washing his hands and heading for the kitchen. He thought while popping a K-cup into place, coffee always helped release the hang ups. It was remarkable that way. Once he got the coffee into his system, he’d find the animals and bring them into the house. Then he’d decide. The house seemed correct, as did the reality outside his window. Maybe he’d enjoy being a woman for a day, or take a nap later and reboot.
Sipping the coffee, he smiled. Coffee always helped. If that ever changed, he didn’t know what he would do.
Michael Seidel, writer 