There once were a girl named Bistabat who loved, above all else, her life. Depending on how you look at it, that sort of outlook could seem either self-centered or a great example of positive thinking. It was neither, though, because Bistabat's life was
perfect, in nearly every detail. So it was just perceptiveness, really. She was not a lustful person, but whatever she did lust after she got - whether it was fashionable, well-made clothes we're talking or a nice sit-down dinner with Keith, her innocent, well-formed neighbor, followed by a sexing. She was rarely sad, but when she was it never lasted and was always interesting for her and her friends and enriching besides. She was far from dependent on others for a good time, but impressive by any standard was the abundance of intelligent, active people who would list among their most treasured (and coveted) possessions Bistabat's friendship. One day, however, Bistabat was rocking in her rocking chair - an heirloom whose frame was cut from walnut by her own great-grandfather - when the chair suddenly tumbled and so did she and she died from a bad break of the neck.
It would seem, then, that Bistabat's life was nothing more than a...