the Sweet Smell of Burning Fur (plonq) wrote,
the Sweet Smell of Burning Fur

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My boss keeps pestering me to do my year-end review. I guess I should get on that.

Plonq sat hunkering alone in the dingy corner with his muzzle buried in a two-page plastic laminated menu. The waiteress, alerted by the little snow leopard's furtive glances over the top of the menu, scurried over with an order pad.

"Whadda ya want?" demanded the shrew around a pencil stub that dangled from the corner of her mouth like a well-chewed, surrogate cigarette. The snow leopard sighed.

"I'm not sure," he grumped. He stabbed the menu with his stubby index finger. "All of your things have weird names, and the descriptions aren't much help. You have a drink here called Self Loathing that the menu describes as a shot of Uncertainty with a splash of Depression.

"That one is very popular in here," said the waitress in a gravelly voice that suggested she was not one to shun a cigarette, "especially with guys who drink alone." She picked up a loose leaf from the table and slid it down into the menu.

"If you look at our specials, we have a deal where if you get Self Loathing with a chaser of Underachievement and you get half off a plate of Fried Expectations."

"What are Fried Expectations?"

"Not what you would expect," said the waitress with a shrug. "An acquired tasted, but you get used to it. I mean, they're half off."

"Eh, I'm not feeling that adventurous," said the snow leopard. He scratched the side of his muzzle in thought. "I'll take the Wasted Potential, hold the Satisfaction and a Dead End Career on ice."

I caught a picture out the window of the plane as I was leaving Calgary for (what I hope is) the last time this year.

Since I was home this weekend, atara wanted to put up the tree. Merry ... "helped." We put up the tree on Sunday, and when we got home from work yesterday, we found three ornaments on the floor and the skirt all bunched up. Ah, cats.
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