Monday, August 20, 2007

I, Pinocchio

Pinocchio tapped the steering wheel as he stared at the house in silence.
There would be pork chops for dinner. There would be the same repeats of shows that weren’t even good the first time. His wife would engage him in tales of daily boredom that rivaled his own ennui.
Every night was the same as everyday was the same. He thought that maybe this would be the night that he simply said fuck it and drove away, to adventure, to excitement, to a better life. This would not be that night.
Pinocchio sighed, closed his eyes, and lowered his head into his hands.
“…Real boy.” He said to himself angrily, and got out of the car and walked into his house.

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