die Körperflüssigkeiten
Well, Napoleon, our sweet little baby dead starfish, is gone.
I couldn't take the smell anymore. The roomie couldn't understand why he would smell. Apparently she thought that starfish don't decompose, they harden and become rocks, and she wanted a little "rock seastar" (her name for starfish). We had a little talk last night about what happens when living things die, all about bodily fluids and bacteria and rigor mortis and the such. But she still couldn't get over that someone told her that starfish become rocks. So I said, yes, maybe they do get hard and rock-like, but probably only when they've been baking on a sand oven underneath the sun for a couple of weeks. However, starfish probably stay soft and squishy when placed, slightly moist, into an airtight container and put in a dark place for a day or two.
Well, by yesterday afternoon, Napoleon was becoming a little too fragrant for my tastes. I, for some reason, have a strange aversion to my clothes smelling like a dead starfish. Accordingly, the roomie moved Napoleon in his bucket from the closet into the bathroom, where she found a nice little cave for him underneath the (leaky) sink. This morning I needed to get paper towels from the same cabinet, and in my stupidity, took a breath. Oh my dear.
This was it. It was either Napoleon or me. One of us had to go.
The roomie came back from work, and I laid down my judgment. She agreed that he smelled a little, and she was disappointed that he wasn't becoming a rock, and so she agreed to throw him away. With a towel over her face, she took little Napoleon from his cave and sent him on a happy tumble down the trash chute. She came back and dolefully told me, "That's the first thing I've ever thrown out." And you know what? Judging from her side of the room, I think she's telling the truth.
So the roomie's a little depressed right now.
I'm a little depressed, too, seeing as how I'm the one that's going to have to clean out Napoleon's little cave, which he thoughtfully stank up.
So long, Napoleon. We hardly knew ya.
Speaking of death. The roomie is on the phone telling someone about the preacher in chapel today. She asked me how old do I think he is. A completely irrelevant question. The real question is how long has he been dead, and why won't someone bury the poor thing!
I couldn't take the smell anymore. The roomie couldn't understand why he would smell. Apparently she thought that starfish don't decompose, they harden and become rocks, and she wanted a little "rock seastar" (her name for starfish). We had a little talk last night about what happens when living things die, all about bodily fluids and bacteria and rigor mortis and the such. But she still couldn't get over that someone told her that starfish become rocks. So I said, yes, maybe they do get hard and rock-like, but probably only when they've been baking on a sand oven underneath the sun for a couple of weeks. However, starfish probably stay soft and squishy when placed, slightly moist, into an airtight container and put in a dark place for a day or two.
Well, by yesterday afternoon, Napoleon was becoming a little too fragrant for my tastes. I, for some reason, have a strange aversion to my clothes smelling like a dead starfish. Accordingly, the roomie moved Napoleon in his bucket from the closet into the bathroom, where she found a nice little cave for him underneath the (leaky) sink. This morning I needed to get paper towels from the same cabinet, and in my stupidity, took a breath. Oh my dear.
This was it. It was either Napoleon or me. One of us had to go.
The roomie came back from work, and I laid down my judgment. She agreed that he smelled a little, and she was disappointed that he wasn't becoming a rock, and so she agreed to throw him away. With a towel over her face, she took little Napoleon from his cave and sent him on a happy tumble down the trash chute. She came back and dolefully told me, "That's the first thing I've ever thrown out." And you know what? Judging from her side of the room, I think she's telling the truth.
So the roomie's a little depressed right now.
I'm a little depressed, too, seeing as how I'm the one that's going to have to clean out Napoleon's little cave, which he thoughtfully stank up.
So long, Napoleon. We hardly knew ya.
Speaking of death. The roomie is on the phone telling someone about the preacher in chapel today. She asked me how old do I think he is. A completely irrelevant question. The real question is how long has he been dead, and why won't someone bury the poor thing!