In which Florence resists the natural processes of getting old and lame.
(Read in Florence’s voice, which sounds uncannily like 14-year-old Claire Danes.)
My people depress me. When I look at their lives I just think, “That’s…it? Why are you so lame?”
That’s what I’m doing all of this for? All of this “sitting” and “staying” and “get off the damn couch!” So that I can be a slave to the leash? I’ve seen pictures of my people as…whatever little humans are called…hummies? Anyway, I’ve seen pictures of when they were young. They had so much promise.
They ran around naked. They pooped standing up. They laid down to eat.
What happened? When did they just start working all the time? Why all the extra…stuff? Like silverware and toilets and people-only furniture. It’s so lame.
It makes me want to be young forever. And just, you know, roam the world. Like Delilah next door. The one who plays under the house. She gets out all the time. Wiley does too, and sometimes I think he hangs out with Delilah when our people aren’t looking. They poop where they want.
Except…I heard them talking today about how they went camping. Apparently they pooped outside. And ate with their hands. I don’t think they ran around naked, but I blame that on their pink skin. Not everyone can be black and tan.
Maybe there’s hope.