Ordinary Fallacious Fancies

     My cat thinks cheddar cheese is better than crack.  This, from a spoiled kitty who enjoys delectable delicacies such as tortilla chips, bananas, tomatoes and dill pickles.  Yet, the poor thing has been nefariously deprived of the much beloved Dairy.  Personally, I blame the influence of all my vegan friends. Only now, thanks to a wicked bout of PMS, cheese is back in the fridge!  And making my cat go absolutely insane.

     Speaking of insane, I recently started wondering if I suffer from delusions of grandeur.  See, in my head I'm already totally famous, living in luxury on my gargantuan estate.  Zebras, lions and elephants amiably stroll by my window . . . while pink flamingos fly overhead . . . as I do naked back flips, off the diving board, into a succession of 10 heart shaped pools.  Just ignore the floaties on my arm as I paddle around the chlorine repleted kiddie pool.  Never mind in real life, the closest diving feat I perform is a tidal-wave induced belly flop.  

     Yeah, actually, you might as well go ahead and ignore the majority of my circadian regimen.  Most hours of which are spent inside either a) the bank, or b) the grocery store.  Where I go.  Every day.  Multiple times a day.  Because I am the crazy freakin' nutcase who needs to frequent these establishments at least once every 12 hours.  Funnily enough, this leaves me with an abundance of business cards and surreptitious cell phone numbers, scrawled onto torn scraps of paper.  If you are ever hankering to go out on a date, but lacking that special someone to wine and dine you,  I highly recommend stalking your local bank teller or grocery store clerk.  It works for me every time.

     **Sigh.**  

     I think I really need to expand upon the hangouts in my daily routine. Like, maybe somewhere where lots of rich people go. What are the billionaires doing all day long?   

     Posed with only one logical solution to this problem, I immediately conducted a short poll to find out.  Sadly, a review of the data did not disclose where the wealthy folk squirrel away in their secret bat caves, but rather-- the overwhelming consensus that they are all fucked up, misanthropic drunkards.

     Hmmm.  That's not what I'm looking for.  I plan on being a happy billionaire.  Aren't there any other ones out there?  New plan:

1. Find out where these miserable people spend all their time.
2. Dress up in an excavation outfit.
3. Dig up the gem that must be buried in the filth.
4. Viola!
5. Happy billionaire teamwork.

      So you know, I've decided to embrace my lunacy.  I'll just keep running with those Delusions of Grandeur.  Next comes flying.  Then to soar.