Out like a Lamb... or in this case, a goat.

Today I changed how I address the world, and i like it a lot better.

The World, p.o.box my perception, 00444 USA

Why is it in the USA do you ask?

United states zip codes are easier, though less specific.

With that, the news!

Ventured out to River Dale farms yesterday to see the kids.

No, not Archie and Jughead. Goats. Baby goats. Bigger than I imagined they would be, and not playful for a dreary afternoon. That’s okay. Zita got her goat fix. Zita loves goats. I don’t know why, but she does.

We also saw the Easter bunnies! Two rabbits in a warren with nests full of (hopefully) unfertilized chicken eggs above them. I took a picture of it and sent it to my niblings. I don’t think any of them noticed the eggs.

Last night, I found myself watching an improv-based version of Clue. I was there to hopefully see how a theatre company deals with audience engagement… THEY DONT! Still and enjoyable show. In this episode colonel Mustard did it. With an everything in the bedroom.

… as vague as that last sentence was, it perfectly sums up this show.

The real reason my finger hurts

It’s not in my kitchen, and the bottle of Soy Sauce is trying to convince me that within its murky depths, there are unknown secrets.

I continue to give it the side eye, knowing that if i fall for this one again… my wife may divorce me. “What are you doing out of the refrigerator?” I ask it.

The sepia toned madness counts the point that it just made a human speak to an inanimate object.

I shake my head. I am not going to drink it. I am not going to be found lying on the floor with a distended belly. I am not-

The brown bottle manages to lewdly wink at me. I punch it halfway across the kitchen.

I am solemnly cleaning the brown splatter off the walls when my wife arrives from circus class.

“Ah,” she says, “I see you’ve been hitting the sauce again.”