Did you ever send away for sea monkeys after seeing that ad in a childhood comic book? I didn't. But I feel like the countless children who, like Wally and The Beaver, eagerly awaited the arrival of their tiny crown-wearing ocean primates. Only to be sorely disappointed.
I was sorely disappointed today. Shush up with that whispering! It's not becoming. I certainly realize that almost everything I do at my age results in something affecting me sorely. You're going to miss my message if you continue to nitpick.
My official award certificate arrived! The one touting me as an honorable mention recipient in the 80th Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition. Because, you see, my memoir/personal essay entry earned 89th place. Did I ever tell you about that? Oh, well. No time now.
The certificate was unceremoniously jammed into my mailbox by the unsavory Backroads postman. No. That's not a euphemism for scantily-clothed cavorting with gentlemen in black crew socks, regrettably caught on camera. It's a fact, Jack.
My mailbox is made of metal pipe, approximately six inches in diameter. This metal pipe is ensconced in a wooden cubicle in a row of fifteen cubicles perched on metal posts sunk three feet into quick-set concrete at the side of the blacktop county road. People in the country can't have nice things. Because of other people in the country who like to bash and smash. The postman folded my special award and stuffed it into my green metal pipe with the yellow interior. Let's just say Hick was channelin' some John Deere energy when he created the mailbox.
Now my special award has a crease down the middle. Good thing it wasn't a leg lamp.