This is an old story, but my e-friend Matthew Doyle convinced me to bring it out of retirement. And by retirement I mean the “maybe throw away at some point in the future” folder on my hard drive.
I am a mighty dinosaur, and I am sinking into a tar pit. I don’t have to tell you that I regret several of my actions which led me to this point.
And still, my neck is very long, and the tar feels quite warm and comforting; which is in stark contrast to all of the suffocating it will be doing in a minute. But I have time to think
(Please stop complaining about my usage of “and”s and “but”s at the beginnings of sentences, and my misuse of the semicolon. I am a dinosaur, not a grammarian)
before I sink into the inky, crusty goo. I don’t have much time to think, just sit and think, these days. And I certainly won’t in a few minutes, ha ha.
Times be hard for a dinosaur. The leaves all seem to have gone, and as delicious ferns and trees provide my only source of sustinence, I have had to walk long distances to simply fill my children’s bellies, much less my own. I hope it doesn’t get any colder, for their sake.
I bray a bit, but of course nobody can hear me.
If it does get much colder, most of my friends and family will die from starvation or the cold. I know Pops isn’t doing too well as it is; he certainly won’t be able to last another freeze like the one we had last week. If it gets any colder… could I be the last dinosaur to die warm?
Ha ha. Tarpit humor.
The main problem with it getting so cold is that it interrupts the carefully compiled instincts our tribe has slowly, slowly established over the many many years we’ve trodded around on this earth. Then it gets cold, and all the carefully constructed info about child rearing, food sources, and so on… it all just sinks into a tarpit.
Nice to have the company.
The problem with overriding a single instinct, such as where to find food, is that the whole groupthink tribal instinctive patterns just go at once, and every dinosaur has to think for themselves for every facet of their slow plodding existance, which often leads to disaster, misery, and some fool getting his fat ass stuck and dead in a tarpit.
Normally, if one of those sharp faced, whip tailed bastards had killed one of my children and dragged her steaming corpse into the woods, I would have cowered with the rest of the tribe.
But I was mad.
I wanted to stomp on their babies
I wanted to break them into red mud
I wanted them to feel pain
So I followed them
And now I’m up to my neck in tar. I struggle, I yell, and soon, very soon now, I’m going to die. I guess instincts are there for a reason, huh.
So as I begin to suffocate, I think- what’s the point of being big and strong if I can’t even protect my babies? What’s the point of anything if I just die breathing in tar, all alone? Has my entire life been as worthless as it seems now?
Hell, I haven’t even had a single worthwhile thought while sinking.