Just call me "George."

You know, there's a reason I don't mill around the yard and in the driveway. Namely, the neighbors. They like to talk - and not even the kind of talking where they talk about you, but the kind where they talk to you.

I saw something bright and orange by the mailbox. Figuring it was trash, I went to pick it up. Normally, I don't give a shit about trash - that's Scott's thing. He can pick up all the damn trash he wants to. I don't know what propelled me over there, but as I went to pick it up, my across-the-street neighbor drives by, points at my belly, and squeals.

She squealed. I pinned on my "hee hee hee" grin. To make a long story short, she said that because I'm so "cute and little" she just had the overwhelming urge to pick me up and squeeze me.

Fuck, I'm turning into a stuffed animal.