I am decidedly pissy today.
But that's neither here nor there.
Today, looking for last-minute plane tickets to Burbank, I discovered that
1) I could fly to Morroco for less money and
2) the cheapest tickets go from San Jose to Sacramento to Phoenix to Burbank and
3) I hate flying anyway so why the f*ck I would want to take off and land three times is beyond me and
4) I could drive there faster anyway and
5) like hell if I want to drive to Burbank because
6) have I explained how much driving I've been doing in the last couple months and
7) I am screwed.
Today I was chasing Simon through the house with a squirt bottle. I was really going full throttle because I was pissed at him and so I was like an assassin out for blood with that thing. And in a cruel twist of fate I slipped in the water that I, myself, had squirted, and landed hard on my right thigh and wrist and before I'd even determined whether or not I'd broken my wrist (I hadn't), I decided I was blogging about that shit.
It knocked the wind out of me. I am old.
When I was five years old, I was performing a similarly impressive sprint through my parents' friends' house and slipped and cracked my head on the corner of a wall, knocking myself out. Because the doctor who stitched me up had probably not washed his hands (he was later arrested for trading sexual favors for drugs), the stitch site got infected, my eyes swelled shut, and I now have a scar in an upper corner of my considerable forehead.
My dad told me once that I could have the scar removed with a laser. There are lots of things I'd like to remove with lasers.
Today a man named Nick knocked on my door and I am not wearing makeup. I do not look impressive, but the good thing is I do not care to impress Nick. He is with Rhino Pest Control and wants to know if I want his Pest Control Technician to spray for bugs around my house.
Nick seems surprised.
There is this bird. A mockingbird, I think. All day long, and all night long it chirps loudly directly outside my bedroom window. My husband thinks it is more than one bird but I think he is wrong and it's just this one, cracked out bird. I want to kill it. I want to kill the mockingbird.
I am not saying Nick offered to kill the mockingbird. He didn't. Maybe if we kill the mockingbird's food supply, the mockingbird will go torture someone else who likes to sleep when it gets dark.
When I was working as a property manager, I had one property that, for some reason, a family of turkey vultures roosted at every winter. They were amazingly clean. We never found nasty turkey vulture poops. The tenants loved the birds. They are huge and ugly. They have six foot wingspans and red heads. My boss wanted to kill them.
They're a protected species.
This post is so stream of consciousness today.
I am hungry.