They’re all packed-up now. Waiting for the cab on the front porch, in fact.
The baby-sitters already knows every single intimate detail about me and my pathetic life. Like, for instance, that I only pee when nobody’s watching [I need my privacy, y’all. Is that so disturbing??]. Or that I can’t STAND tomatoes, but I happily relish pizza slices [You know, the ones that have TOMATO sauce slathered all over their bases]. Or that I ADORE the Letterman show [I’m not even sure how the family knows about this one. I have managed to keep this love of mine pretty discreet and low-key. It’s not like as if I drop EVERYTHING and RUN TO THE T.V SET at a FURIOUS SPRINT [at least, what a furious sprint is for ME, which is practically the speed equivalent to a turtle with an elephant sitting on its back] whenever anyone even mentions the word “Letterman.” Or even “letter” for that matter. Or “man.” Which is why I am frequently running back and forth from my daily activities to the television set, just in case you were dying to know].
Now that I no longer have a celebration to look forward to, I kind of don’t want them to go. I mean, how fun could a babysitter be?? I’m sure she’s just going to text her boyfriend and hog our potato chips during the next five days.
And THAT’ why it’s ridiculous we’re keeping her in the first place. She’s getting PAID for using OUR wi-fi and munching OUR snacks.She doesn’t even have to look-after me. I’m pretty much a self-maintenance dog [except for meals, tic-removal, brushing, flossing, walking, taking-out-for-pooping and medicating on an hourly basis. But that’s pretty much it]. So why are WE the ones handing out the moolah?? Shouldn’t she be rewarding us for our internet, junk food and shelter??
You know guys, I just might be talking about my future profession.