Tuesday, April 12, 2016
The flea did not like April. It held no great appreciation for the blossoming of Spring, and warmth and greenery brought no joy to its bedroom-dwelling life. It brooded, instead, over the relative filth of its meals, annoyed that the blood of its host curdled and soured on April 1st every year. Emotion was a potent tang, and stress did not appeal to the flea at all. Snugged in a blanket of matted hair, staring moodily at the heap of paperwork laying next to the bed, only dimly aware that it should never have lived long enough to know so much, the flea waited for tax season to end.