When the mail arrived today there was indeed a package addressed to me! To my surprise, there was a goat inside of it.

This goat was definitely not a middle aged black man. If Malcolm X had come across it he would not have said, “Welcome to the brotherhood!” He would have said, “Well then. There is a goat resting by my feet.”

There was nothing particular astounding about the goat. It was small and had a short beard, almost like a goatee. Its hooves were sharp and there was a devilish gleam in its brown eyes. It looked like an ugly old man. I thought back to Mrs. Barton, who also looks like an ugly old man. People have got to stop being so ugly.

I didn’t know exactly what to do with the goat at first, but my instincts as a pure, natural woman with great thighs and even tan lines said to me: “You know what, Tila. It’s a goat. But even goats need love.”

After all, today’s society is severely lacking in the intimacy and romance that’s supposed to come pre-packaged in relationships. Maybe my new goat will provide me with everything I don’t get with Mr. Barton, which is love. I could take my goat on romantic walks to the park, out to the movies every once in awhile to see a romantic comedy, and every once in awhile we could take baths together, playfully splashing one another with soap bubbles and laughing at ourselves in our absurdity.

It will be true love.