Gypsy queen.

I’m a monster. Allow me to explain. Today is my last day at work before moving on to a new company. Predictably, I have way, way too much stuff in my office to bring home in just one trip. This means that over the past several months, I have been unconsciously hoarding trinkets, tchotchkes and doodads (oh my!) at an unnatural rate. Unnatural, perhaps, for humans, but not unnatural for another member of the Animal Kingdom – one that is so depraved and base, I have trouble even typing the letters in its bone-chilling name. That’s right, I’ve officially become a squirrel. Therefore, I am a monster. I know full well that I am not the only human who suffers from squirrel dysmorphia, but one feels very alone lugging a shopping bag full of posters, paper weights, assorted coffee mugs, plush toys, photos and a jar of thumb tacks down the hallway like some sort of gypsy moving on to the next town to hawk exotic wares. “My name is Nailsbarelda, and I have been traveling the lands for decades, like my ancestors before me, making my trade in the streets of the most bustling cities and bucolic countrysides. But do not let my exceptional beauty fool you. I am exceedingly crafty, and indeed rely on my feminine charms to spellbind my unsuspecting marks before picking their pockets clean.” OK, I’m done. How did I jump from squirrel to gypsy in just one sentence? I must be exhausted from carrying all that stuff.