There are few things better than reheated pizza on a Saturday morning.
Well, actually there are probably quite a few things better than that, but that's the best thing about pizza; when it's good, it's good. When it's bad, it's still pretty good. In the words of a great man, you might imagine great banquets of exquisite food, but in the end of the day, you'll still settle for some eggs and bacon, if they're tastefully done and perhaps have a slice of tomato.
On another note, I am waiting for the beginning of the CampNaNoThon, which is just around the corner, though it will be 5.00 PM at my place and not ten in the morning. Wouldn't it be nice if we didn't have to worry about time differences. I will either be late or horribly late, depending on if my manager lets me have a double shift or not. So that will mean either four or eight hours of sitting behind a register pondering my life choices, since no-one ever shops there in the weekends. You would think that all the easy-go would be a good thing, but it's so horrifically boring that after sitting there for a while you become convinced that the clock is turning backwards.
On top of that, I keep finding weird scribbles in my writing notebook. One was 'flying turtles.' The strange part is that no-where in my story is the focus on aliens or sea creatures. The bad part is that I can't remember what the hell I was thinking, which is awful, because flying turtles sound amazing.
Oh, internet. You really do have everything.
They're such wonderful animals, though. Even though they always look like some sort of secret agents, the way they look at you. As in 'this conversation did not happen. This room is not real. I am not real. Maybe, you are not real.'
Wow. Secret agent turtles are giving me an existential crisis. What is my life?
They have seriously strange skeletons as well. Their skulls look alien. Like, if you saw them, and you didn't know what they were, your first guess would be 'alien.' And their vertebrae are basically fused to the shell, so removing a turtle's shell is impossible without killing it. Which is why Golden Eagles, instead of having to deal with that pesky shell, just pick them up and drop them from great heights to break it. Kinda arseholish when you consider that these birds are/were used in Mongolia to hunt wolves. This technique supposedly resulted in the death of the ancient Greek dramatist Aeschylus, the eagle apparently mistaking his head for a convenient rock and letting go. I really hope this is true. I mean, there is just something wonderful about the fact that in this universe, it is possible to be brained by a tortoise. When compared to a lot of other potential ways to die, I would probably go with this one. I mean, at least it's quick, and the funeral would be a laugh riot.
How did I even get on this topic?
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