Caterwauling

After you give up your would-be affair frog-prince to stay with the belching, farting, sneezing, honking, Lysol-cloud riding, micromanaging funky ass, you can’t really tell him to shove a fly up his froggy butt because you just lit your backup lily pad on fire.

I predicted this. And again, I’m not sure it’s worse than moving into the affair frog/prince’s pad. But it was nice to dream of kicking frogpies across the pond even though you knew you couldn’t base your decision on the joy you would derive from it.

Probably a terrible headline and not very creative.

But after I saw an “expert” take one of my favorite writer’s brilliant headlines two weeks ago and make it sound like fuckin’ “See Spot Run” … and I no longer have override capability because it’s only my monkeys but not my circus … and don’t get me started on the content itself … I’m pretty much dead inside.

In any event, I picked my frog prince. My decision surprised even me.

Maybe “decision” is too definitive here.

At least, I either made it a whole lot easier … or a whole lot harder … to decide, should the decision come around again. Still not sure which.

I don’t know that it will come around again. Nor am I sure I want it to. And don’t think I didn’t immediately regret the decision the second I shared it with my frog prince.

The other started ribbiting instantly. (Literally, three minutes later.) And I’m like damn it, frogpies. Pipe the fuck down before I squash your poisonous ass. Jesus.

In any event, I’ve either opened the door to something bigger or I’ve burned the bridge forever.

And for the fact that I honestly cannot tell is probably confirmation that I did the right thing.