"Pig? Um, okay. So, uh, where's my costume?" I asked, enviously eyeing a compatriot being outfitted in a gauzy white flowing number. I knew better than to argue with Suzy, even in my sleep.
|Intimidating, I tell you...|
I looked down and saw I was wearing ugly jeans and an even uglier bright blue button-down top. Where did I get those? I wondered.
"Okay," Suzy said. "You've got to go outside now."
"Yes, you're the PIG. You have to run away, and they are all going to chase you." She shook her head as if to say, Man, do I have to explain EVERYTHING to these cretins? and stalked away.
Things went downhill from there. Picture one of those medieval scenes of a mob of villagers (but dressed in long, flowy dresses) carrying torches, hunting for the runaway pig (um, that's me), who was doing her best to do a sort of infantry crawl through the woods, all the while wondering where she got that ugly blue shirt she had on.
I have the dumbest dreams, I swear. But, Suzy, if you're reading this, I don't think I'm going to sign up for an improv workshop, should you decide to start offering them. Not unless you can guarantee I won't be the pig...
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