The early bird gets the worm
Some birds favor worms, others aspire to greater dreams. Don’t discount the importance of knowing what you want.
Take for example the Spaceship Tweedle-Dee of the intergalacticon and its competitor, the wild-ranging Tweedlelee-Dum. The crew of the Dee, as I shall henceforth call it, woke early each morning, pressed their uniforms to a starch factor of nine, then set out in search of the Great Worm, the mysterious creature known to old salty spacefarers, but never documented to exist.
The Dee’s did this every intergal day for nigh on seventeen years. Until at last even Captain Stiffneck didn’t believe that he’d ever catch his quarry. In fact, he suspected the Worm was some sort of mass hallucination brought on by overexposure to the hypnotic distortions of hyper travel.
He hated his job, hated that the Dum had been following him just out of range for several months. And, frankly, he missed Earth. All he wanted was to sit in his dinghy, pole in hand (worm dangling on the end of it, of course. Who trusted those newer-fangled plastic baits?), beer in the other, and fish. Another month, and he would earn his retirement. His boat awaited.
Stiffneck adjusted his tie in the mirror. He would tolerate no slackness in his crew, not even himself. If they were to find the Worm, it may be early this morning as well as any other.
Striding crisply onto the bridge, he called out, “Let’s get moving, men. Find us a worm, perhaps in the nebula.”
The Dee zipped into the nebula. Before it could get far, a worm emerged and swallowed it whole. The Dum followed in, disappearing into the space cavern from which the worm had come.
The early bird may get the worm, but the tardy bird will get the wormhole.
You can't run with the hare and hunt with the hounds
Your fellow hounds will invite you to come hunting – they always do, they’re an inclusive crowd. But that don’t mean you can do it.
See, you’ll all be slinking along, head low to the ground, butt up in the air, wiggling, looking for the opportunity to pounce or sprint off in headlong pursuit. But then, the lead dog will raise its snout, wrinkling it, and glance around. He’ll have caught a whiff of your scent. The sweet hossenfeffer smell of wabbit, mixed in from the fun of sprinting with your loppy-eared bud.
Don’t stew on the injustice of it all. Run! Run like the hares taught you, but faster. And, whatever you do, don’t run towards your friend hare’s hovel. Running with the hare got you into this predicament in the first place. Running towards the hare will guarantee you a remaining lifetime of running alone.
Running away from the memories of friends who’ve turned on you and the friend they ate. As you watch their muzzles stain red with the blood of friendship betrayed, you’ll know the worst feeling of all: wishing the one they munched was you.
You can't have your cake and eat it too
Some cakes are imaginary. Most often wedding cakes. They have five layers, or maybe even seven. Icing lies in rich swirls, suggesting the motion of waves. Don’t worry about being skimpy; this is your day. On each level, the wave crests over the edge, poised on the brink of falling, but held on through the magic of supersaturated sugar solutions.
And your man – well; he’s perfect. Suave and dashing and considerate and attentive. All those imaginary qualities rolled into one tall, but not too tall, gentlefellow. And those dreamy eyes. They’re just for you.
The band hits a perfect rendition of Beethoven’s ninth. The conductor, his wild fly away hair. That look of possession in his eyes. Hey, you call out at the top of your lungs. Everyone turns. Everyone but him. A deaf conductor? Whoever heard of such a thing? You shrug. Why not?
The cake is sliced. Your dream man holds up a piece, showing you the luminescent yellow inside, and raises it towards your lips. Before he can smear it across your face, you grab it. Such perfect cake is not to be wasted. Nor should the slightest morsel mar your impeccable skin. Pinky raised, you take a dainty bite. Delightful! It tastes like the perfect approximation of air. You don’t even need to chew. Or swallow.
You can have this cake, this zero calorie delight. But if you plan to eat, go for something real: chocolate with a messy fudge frosting. And nuts, loud crumbly nuts. You’ll be glad you did.
