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You’re a Star, I’m a Star, Everyone’s a Starfish.

Being a middle aged starfish in today’s society isn’t easy. All I want to do is be a star shape fish but I’m shown skinny starfish in all the magazines to make me body conscious, I’m told what I eat is bad for me, not to smoke, do more exercise like star jumps or swimming and I’m made to fear the world through the scaremongering media whilst my savings are drained with little interest paid and food, petrol, insurance and a multitude of other things rising in price. It’s just not worth being a starfish somedays, I just want to go wishywashy in the sea and bob around without a care in the world but because of the pollution I’m forced to live in this one up one down emergency accommodation.

Sigh, being a middle aged starfish is tough, it’s the little things that annoy though.

I love a cup of coffee, it makes my points tingle even though the kettle is not starfish friendly I manage to struggle most days and get it to boil.

The bloody milk bottles though, completely unsuitable for starfish. Who on earth designed them? I may have five limbs but even I can’t lift a full four pints, not only that they put the milk shelf so high in a fridge it takes me fifteen minutes to climb up to it. Even when I get it back down I still have the problem of twisting the cap, my little arms are getting weaker and I have trouble twisting.

It’s the same if I fancy a snack, I mean what starfish could stretch far enough to rip open a bag of crisps when the bags are made out of such tough plastic. Last time I tried I could only open it a few inches and spent the rest of the night having to crawl in and out of the bag every time I wanted one. Pringles are as bad, come on guys I only have short arms, think on!

I do like a good read though but I have to stick to the old fashioned books. Using a kindle is a nightmare and I slip off the screen.

So how does a middle aged emergency housed starfish cope with all this modern inconvenience? Easy, I use a whole new concept. I call it the Stardrunk, it’s like a Starjump only you end up face down feeling rough instead of leaping up full of energy. Works for me!

Burp! Oh, hell. Where am I, what did I do with that minnow last night? I knew that triple tequila Guinness whiskey slammer was a mishtake.

Did I just say mish?


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