One Clone To Cancun

I had myself cloned yesterday. It had seemed like such a good idea. I’d be able to go places and do things I’ve always wanted to do while my clone manned the cash register at the Old 23 gas station. My clone wouldn’t mind. She’d understand. She’d be happy that I’d finally be getting the vacation I’ve needed for the past six years.

It had seemed like such a brilliant idea.

My clone disagreed. “Why should you have all the fun while I get all the work? Am I gonna get paid for it?”

“No. It’s my job, not yours.”

“So? You go to ‘your job’ and I go to Cancun.”

“Cancun? What? I don’t like Cancun.”

“Big whoop about what you like, girl. I’m going to Cancun without you.” And then she blew raspberries at me.

“You’re not supposed to sass me. You are me.”

“Nuh-uh. I ain’t you. You a mean, cussin’ bleepity-blankity named Sarah Jones. I am Legolas Greeenstorn – spelled with three e’s, thank you so much.”

“You can’t call yourself that. You’re me!”

And she blew raspberries at me again. “I’m gonna get those tickets to Cancun whether you like that bowl of beans or not.” She swaggered herself over to my purse and swiped my credit card.

I should stop her, but why bother? “If you want to go to Cancun, fine! Go! I hope you get sunburned.”

She sat down at my computer and went on the internet.

I grabbed the remote and dropped into the leather couch. If she wanted to leave, fine. I’d just get myself cloned again. I turned on the tv. It was on a commercial. Some woman was complaining about how bad her head hurt. Oh, lady. You don’t know anything about headaches. Hopefully, the new clone will have a better attitude about our situation.

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