Pages

Friday, November 20, 2015

Priorites

I don't know whose child this is.

Probably somebody will come looking for him. Maybe. In a minute some frantic mother will come screaming his name desperately, and she will be so relieved to find him hanging out with me, unharmed, laughing, and I'll just hand him right over, because I really have more important things to do than keep up with anybody else's kid.

Papers to write, team members to review, surveys to read, oil to change...

It's not like I can go anywhere anyway, because the floor actually is made of lava, and this little booger-eater has stolen my lava-proof flip-flops and is strutting around all pleased with himself. He thinks he's cute, but those are my favorite flip-flops.

Where is your mother, kid?

Okay, I guess you can sit with me. We'll cozy up together until whoever misplaced you comes to find you. We'll point at passersby and pretend we're on a spaceship, and if we're good, really really good, we'll find some ice cream.

What else have I got to do?