On Bulldogs

Never let a bulldog get away. It is a terrible habit. The girl was full of terrible habits. For this one night, the entire town set heir last lava lamps down, set aside their bongs and their half frozen TV dinners, and watched, no, paid homage and attention to the fat girl with the curly brown hair. And instead of feeding the chickens or scrubbing the floor or getting exercise by jogging down long dirt roads filled with happy memories and sweat and sharp blades of grass swaying in hot summer sun, she let the bull dogs get away.

Bulldogs are by nature self absorbed citizens. It was a let down to the entire town, who shut their eyes slowly, then proceeded to quickly open their eyes and continue to heat up their half frozen TV dinners. Perhaps one little boy expected to see the girl walk like a person and felt surprise and disappointment, but this, of course, is only speculation. She looked at her hands, which were in need of expensive name brand moisturizer, and she looked at the open gate. The bull dogs were busy having the time of their lives, tearing the public from limb to limb, burying the town under mountains of dirt. She reached out and touched a pile, excepting it to be something besides large and brown, and smell like something besides old tires. Needless to say, she was let down. She felt something from somewhere deep, but not too deep, never too deep. And so as she watched crumbling dirt around her, she remembered the root of the problem, and how it depressed her.

She then remembered something, the reason she had been okay with the bulldogs. The sun, it was still. While her bulldogs ruined everything now that they had been released, and while their greedy teeth could not now distinguish themselves from everything that they destroyed, the sun was still.