Bobo, the Lovable Primate

"Bobo came with us, of course.  He got into more trouble over the years than all the kids put together, but we loved him just the same."
Bobo is a monkey; a chimp, to be more specific.  He works on a circus, obviously because he is brilliant.  The speaker has five children, so to combine the trouble they all got into and have that still not add up to Bobo's shenanigans really says something about the lovable primate.
Can you imagine being the vet of a circus, making your rounds every day to the same animals, and falling inlove with a monkey and an elephant? I wish I could.

Every day, Bobo and I would take a stroll through the menagerie.  He would either be attached to my hip or holding my hand, like my own child did.  His little almost-human hand fit perfectly in mine, even though it was always leathery.  When Marlena was on my mind, Bobo would always stare up at me with his too-human amber eyes, sensing my pain and frustration.  Pre-stampede, he laughed at me.  He just laughed and laughed and laughed.  Apparently, when you are hungover, it affects your work to the point of being laughed at by a monkey and sprayed with water by a giggling elephant.  Post-stampede, the poor fellow trembled for days.  When Marlena and I broke him out of his cage before leaving the circus, his grin was from ear to ear.  He knew.  He always knew.

The Elephant

Continuing the theme of necessities, being waited upon is not one of them.  Being a waiter myself is the perfect example.  I serve the elderly, so maybe that's not the best example. Some of the residents aren't able to get up on their own, or have to use a scooter.  Being the twenty-two year old I am, I can never picture myself in an old-folks home.  Senile and wrinkly people belong there, and I am neither of those things nor will ever be those things.  I will never have Dumbo- esque ears, I will never allow my neck be as long as a turkey's gobbler.
Imagine seeing things familiar to you as a boy, then seeing them again seventy years later.  Would the colors be different because of poor eyesight, or have the colors really just changed?  Would the smells be the same, or would there be any smell at all?  What about the other senile and wrinkly people? Will they understand what I am going through because it's a generational thing, or will they all look at me like I'm an old bat?

This entry will have to wait to be continued, it is time for me to water the elephant.

Hollow Sounds

So, I technically already have a blog.  It's full of poetry that I had forgotten about until, well, now (A side note to Mrs. Healey- it may or may not contain words you would not say in church but they were written a really long time ago). 
I don't really know how to blog.  I mean, on tumblr you just write what you're feeling, I guess, but I don't have a tumblr so I wouldn't know. I guess this blog has a special purpose, because we are, in fact, a special class of AP Lit students. We are, in fact, the only class of AP Lit students. Regardless, the moral of this story is that I am inexperienced at blogging and this first post is just running around in circles.
Fini.