These Otterpops got me feeling all sorts of nice. I’m double fisting purple and orange day dreaming about talking wombats. I imagine their advice being the same as the voice I’ve learned to ignore. Summer days are like that, all orange cream sodas, sun shine and optimism.
Those wombats are whisperers. They tell me about her—they don’t even know her name, but they know more than enough. “It’s just the Otterpops talking. How many have you had today? Could you step out of the vehicle sir.” They shine their fancy Maglites in my eyes, leaving me seeing red and blue blotches that tell me to come back down, have a cup of coffee and pay my bills on time. If they weren’t wombats, I swear I’d shoot them. But they're wombat and I love wombats. Besides I think they’re on the endangered species list, and I don’t want that on my conscience.
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