I've got a story for you.
Around dinnertime on Monday, I developed a sharp pain in my stomach. I didn't think much of it because I do tend to have stomach problems every now and then. But close to the middle of the meal, it became quite terrible.
Mum and Dad were pretty convinced that it was a gastric problem, but I knew better.
I was being eaten alive by a baby dinosaur.
In honour of the momentous occasion, I decided to name him. Ever the helper, Alex came up with one for him too. I named him Franklin. Alex named him Herbert.
As the night progressed, little Franklin (he's called that because that's the name I gave him. This is MY blog. Get your own, Alex.) got increasingly violent.
The pain was crazysuperi'mnotevenkiddingseriouslyiwouldnotwishthatuponmyworseenemyre
allysuperunbearably bad. I kid you not.
[I'll skip to the next part, where all the convulsing and backwards eating finally stopped.]
This morning, I woke up feeling a lot better. I didn't feel completely recovered, but I didn't feel like crawling into a hole to die. And that's always a good way to feel. :D
Rachel paid a visit to make sure the little dino didn't get me, which is where the second half of the story comes along.
'I wonder what happened to Fredrick.'
'I was asking about Fredrick and what happened to him.'
'FREDRICK. The baby dinosaur!'
'. . .'
'Didn't you name him Franklin?'
'Oh. Yeah. That's what I meant.'
And after that, the conversation didn't seem worth continuing anymore. I blame the one in possession of the superior memory. *jerks head towards Rachel*
So kids, the moral of the story is to never name the baby dinosaur that invades your stomach because it will kill you. It will also multiply.
Consider this my good deed of the week.
P.S. I do feel better. After a sucky night like Monday night, everything looks nice and sunny.