By day, I'm a cog in the nonprofit machine, and poet. By night, I'm a creature of the internet. My soul is a grumpy cat who'd rather be sleeping.
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fouls in the cornfield
There was a rule at the community baseball field: once the cornfield at its edge reached knee height, players were required to rescue any ball fouled or flung into it. The adult leagues had a system to decide whether the catcher or first baseman had to lead the search, and how many beers were owed to whoever found the ball.
for the day is long
Fish don’t understand the concept of small talk. You’d think they’d be better at it, especially the ones who spend most of their days in bowls or tanks or whatever zoological imprisonment looks best in a teenager’s bedroom. That whole “goldfish have a five second memory span” myth really screwed them over when it came to living arrangements. You’d think they’d be more bitter. Or bored.