The Abridged And Fragmented Eulogy to Amanda and An Unkown Octopus

Unbeknownst to most people octopus live for ten years. In this time they are born, they feed, they breed, they die. It seems wrong for me to abridge a ten year long life of a creature smart enough to be able conceal themselves as cacti but mostly I’m one of the unbeknownst. I’m trying to learn more about them but right now, because I want to stop abridging so much of so many things.

Amanda was born in May and died in November and I loved her very much. She had auburn (that’s brown right?) hair and black eyes. I remember the first time I met her in the pharmacy. That was when she was fourteen, two years ago. I knew that if I kissed her right then that we would be forever. Obviously, I didn’t and I know I’m silly for even thinking that would work but I didn’t do it.

She had this weird secret little smile that you had to know her to be able to see an I always got the strangest sense of satisfaction from seeing it every night. And yeah, I’m sorry it was pretty much every night. Even when she was sick, even when she was drying. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t kiss her that time and we weren’t immortal.

Can someone else talk please?

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