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storytelling and life Bullfrogs
It was a hot, sticky day and Tabitha was seated on the lounge area, surrounded by empty plastic cups and melted ice cream.� The hum of the lone electric fan (quite old and far too overworked) blended with her friend's voice, which she was only half-listening to.
"...last night...drove my new car... went bullfrog-crushing... I probably got almost ten!� I just enjoy the popping sound they make under my tire!"
"Just like you're god,"� Tabitha blurted out as a horrible realization struck her.
She felt cold all over.� She imagines a supreme being driving along a 24-dimensional road that we couldn't even bein to visualize and it sees each of us as bullfrogs stupidly wandering onto the road.� One minute we're walking, talking, laughing.� The next minute we're just another popping sound, another icky, messy roadkill.
And, just like a cockroach crushed under an indifferent housewife's slipper, guts spilled out all over the floor, we stupidly hang on to life and desperately look for a dark place to hide in, not accepting that we would die eventually anyway for we have been dealt a mortal blow.
Tabitha shudders as she sees all of these.
And, as her friends moved on to another nonsense topic, as ice cream dried into sticky gobs on the table's surface, as the elctric fan circulated humid recycled air around the room, Tabitha hid her face and cried silent tears of shame.
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