Pancho Villa

I now have a pet fish that lives in a fiesta-colored water pitcher, and his name is Pancho Villa. Acceptable nicknames to follow:

PaVi
Papi
Panch
The Frito Bandito
Blue Renegade
Buddy
The-wicked-awesome-looking-betta-slash-siamese-fighter-fish-on
-Melanie’s-desk-that-she-may-or-may-not-talk-to-as-if-he-were-human

Bible Application?

Last night we discussed wealth and the last-being-first principle at Carl’s house. Typically, I don’t walk away from Bible Study looking for concrete ways to just live out the spoon-fed lesson because I feel like it’s my responsibility to dig a little deeper. Apparently my subconscious feels differently.

I dreamt last night that my car was no longer usable—no explanation, this is a dream—so I went to a Honda car dealership, test-drove a sexy little silver number with room for TONS of people. When the salesman got out of the car to draw up the paperwork, some outer-force took over my body, and I just up and drove the car right off the lot.

In fact, I drove that thing for days (in my dream) before even thinking about the fact that I hadn’t paid for it. When I did finally have that epiphany moment where “acquiring a new vehicle” was really stealing, I came up with the only logical solution left: Keep driving the car and beg for money (in the amount of $10,000 exactly—if only new cars were really that cheap) at the end of a freeway off-ramp.

So I’m standing on the northwest corner of the 210 eastbound Madre St off-ramp when I wake up to the noise of my neighbor’s mariachi music blaring, coinciding perfectly with the boom box in the lap of my wheelchair-bound, Vietnam vet, homeless friend on the street corner. Steve was waving a sign that said, “I don’t want your money, your food, or your sympathy. I just want a smile.”

“And what was your first thought when you awoke?” you ask. I’ll tell you:

“SHOOT! I’m not supposed to want $10,000!” We’ll just chalk it all up to half-conscious delirium.

Puppy Fever

I’ve got a beagle-sized bee in my bonnet today.

After doing the responsibility math and counting the costs, I’ve decided the best-fit for a potential long-term commitment for me would be with a dog—more specifically a beagle. They’re a somewhat gentle breed, relatively trainable, and the perfect size without needing constant grooming. Here’s my real reasoning. Side note: I am fully aware that none of the following is remotely reasonable.

1) This is year number six without a dog at home, and I’ve finally adjusted my living style accordingly, which is simply unacceptable. I let myself leave food on coffee tables, my shoes chill all over the floor, and all my doors remain open—ergo, diffusing the effectiveness of the air conditioner I just recently decided to actually turn on.

2) My mom is a handler in therapy dog ministry so the training should come both naturally through observation alone and inherently in my gene pool.

3) The small porch-slash-yard at the place I’m moving into would require me to walk my new friend frequently, giving me a reason to exercise more for the health of another life.

4) Everyone else is doing it (all the neighbors in the new complex have pets, or at least that what’s I’m choosing to believe).

The realer (if that's a word) reason: A part of me doesn’t want to wait for that ambiguous moment in time where I am “adult” and “settled” enough to have matching dishes, well-decorated living quarters, and that beagle that’s just the right size, loves people, sings when I play the piano, and sleeps at the foot of my bed. Not that I’m a huge Sex and the City fan, but this is the point where I would register MYSELF at Macy's.

The realest (again, if that's the correct permutation of the word) reason: I had a dream last night where one of my friends reminded me that the new complex was zoned for dogs (the same dream where I stole a car from a dealership and begged on the street to raise the $10,000 necessary to buy it and avoid jail time).