The infamous “they” say that everyone has their price. I know that they are referring to money generally, but what about the side of it that is not monetarily generated? How much does it take to reach a person’s limit?

How many times can someone listen to nails screeching on a chalkboard before summarily ripping the offending nails out one-by-one?

Where would the line in the neighborhood sandbox be drawn over a wee-small yapperocious dog? Or much too bright motion activated backyard floodlights glaring in a bedroom?

What would be the final backbreaking straw in a self-sabotaging mind war between much-to-available unhealthy eats and its close ally in lack-of-motivation to exercise versus fitting into the cute jeans and having more energy from generating more energy?

When I find that straw – provided it is not covered in chocolate or something and I don’t eat it – I’ll let you know.

Not that you asked, but I’m going to keep look for that freaking straw in my haystack anyway.

The life of a fish can be very short. Especially those purchased at chain pet stores and looked after by working moms who can barely remember to shave their legs, take something out of the freezer for dinner, or return DVDs ontime let alone clean and feed tiny fish tucked away under the clutter of elementary age wonderment and dirty socks.

I am sure there are fish out there who are able to withstand the elements of hurricanes and typhoons and tsunamis or the occasional over-feed and cloudy tank, but lately, the only ones I have come across tend to stroke out if the water gets too cold or someone forgets to feed them on a regular basis.

The good news for those fish is that whatever burst of emotion their passing can bring up for the owner fades within some small proportionate amount of time to the length of their life.

Except for the nagging guilt of the actual care-taker which tucks itself away underneath layers of algae and soggy fish pellets only to erupt forth at an unplanned, unannounced and definitely unceremonious time.

When she finally pulled across the road, the pain in her head pulsed with a vibratory pain in unison with the involuntary blood flow through her veins. The bright headlights from the oncoming traffic served to intensify the maddening internal beat of cellular magma. Red taillights gave off silently screaming tracers reminding her that life was in 3-D and she’d better grip the wheel tightly if she wanted to make it to her destination in one, albeit technical, piece.

The time to change course had long passed as had her ability to not continue careening along the familiar drive desperately denying the obvious. When the pain hit like it had on this night, she was unable to reason that her life was anything but a metaphor filled with sonorous, overwrought embellishments.

Much like an old water heater bursting its seams as it ruptures from the inside out, she was unstoppable.