The mortals baked cinnamon rolls last night, if you can call unpeeling the waxy cardboard from factory produced dough and sticking a tray in an oven baking. Their descent to sloth irks me, but I am forced to admit that as they do less in a kitchen, it minimizes the chance of me getting dirtied. The frenzy of yesterday’s morning activities have done little to redeem the female’s housewife status in my eyes. A morning filled with laundry, dishes, and cleaning does little to change an afternoon spent galavanting outside the confines of the apartment.
The female has traded the final season of Gossip GIrl for The Walking Dead and I’ll admit–listening to this show chills my hardened stone body. Mostly, though, I find the quiet dialogue difficult to listen to. It is better than having to pose for her artistic endeavors. Her newest painting was of me, although she added wings to my physique. A twisted modification, as though she intends to mock my heavy form.
The male is an easier companion, although his endless repeat of video games is likely to wear on my nerves. The whispers of a larger television, to arrive today, do make me wonder where he intends to place me. Anywhere would be better than next to the miniature Hawaiian tiki gods. Their narcissism is loud, unrelenting, and will be the end of me, I’m sure.