Cynthia heard a soft rasping at the door

Cynthia heard a soft rasping at the door and hesitantly she opened it. There it was, staring at her with dark blank eyes the

"For heaven's sake, don't call me Bono. Or Bobo for that matter. Talk about cliche." The web-ordered bonobo brashly sprawled on the ottoman, while his owner was lost in thought.

"What about Nobo?" his new owner asked. "No!" cried the bonobo. "No B's, O's, or N's. While you're thinking of a halfway-decent name, why don't you tell me the Netflix password?"

The owner raised a brow. "Ok...." Clearing his throat, the owner said, "I dub thee hence, Sir 1111!"

"Can't I just be a four? You know--4. All that other nonsense, with one and one and one and one, makes me dizzier than a woodpecker stuck to the front of the tilt-a-whirl ride."

The comparison struck a cord with her. Her mother had died in a freak "stuck to the front of the tilt-a-whirl ride" accident. She clenched her fists and screamed, "No! You're a 1!"

But it was already too late. They were gone into the vortex that is life, and she was left alone. In a depressed haze she walked to the cotton candy stand and ate a lot of sugar

-y pink floss, but her depression kept her from flossing afterward, so all her teeth rotted. Her dentist stared deeply into her eyes instead of her mouth, and the two fell in love.

Her mouth opened to kiss him, & he marveled at how easy French kissing her was, not hearing her teeth hit the floor. He felt they were made for each other- & they WERE... sort of.