monkey on the porch

I have toy monkeys. Stuffed, mostly -- a couple of glass and ceramic ones. People think I collect them because I like them. For me, they are simply reminders of the one that lived for so long on my back. The fiance has a stuffed monkey, an old one with plastic face and hands and yellow organ grinder clothes. When Nicole came home from school today, someone had left another monkey on the porch. Pinned to the monkey was a note that said something like: "Hello, My name is Mr. Baggs. I used to live in the attic with your Auntie Florence, but she died in a flood and now I have nowhere to live. Your house looks cozy and warm. Will you be my new family?" Now, the letter was longer than that, but you get the idea. So, I told Nicole to lock the door and don't open it until her dad gets home from work. I've seen all of the movies. Dangerous animals come out from under the bed, their heads spin around and shit flies. See for yourself.

I'm tired. Left P-land at 4:45 this morning. Helluva commute. Made it on time, but I was really sleepy. I'm almost done making that drive.