How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Dinosaur Keychain Invasion
My roommate thinks I'm "normal." Bless her heart. Doesn't know about the drawer. Seventeen sparkly reptiles sleep there. In velvet chaos. Waiting.
Last Tuesday, her mom visited. Surprise inspection. Three minutes.
Grabbed the H pendant first. On car keys. Glittering like tiny disco reptile. Shoved into cereal box. Bad move. Moms open cereal boxes.
The Z went into houseplant. M got taped under 💣 tank lid. Classic.
Q? Already hidden in hollowed-out candle. Amateur hour. Real collectors use tampon boxes. No one looks there. Revolutionary.
Her mom found R in "decorative" mason jar of rice. Claimed "craft supplies." Technically true.
W went into frozen peas. Sparkle plus frost equals stealth mode. Science.
By minute four, fourteen dinosaurs deployed across studio apartment. Like glittery ninjas.
Then her mom spotted something. Under couch. Glimmering.
Emergency H backup. Sparkle caught light. Catastrophe.
Dove. Rolled. Came up holding like trophy. "Found my contact!" Shouted.
Her mom wears glasses. Squinted. Nodded slowly. Left room.
Now own lockbox disguised as dictionary. For dinosaurs. Fine.
