We all knew before that I can be a little fucking nuts-o at times. I think it’s safe to say I lost it somewhere between high school and now. Since I got home this evening, I’ve encountered three more ostensive signs of that very fact:
Do all of you faithful blog followers remember when I was talking about my La Choy Boob Noodles? I snack on La Choy Chow Mein noodles all the time. If I happen to be in lounge clothes (ahem, all the time), I usually spill them down my top. Then I proceed to pull them out from my bra-top and eat them. Happens all the time.
Well, tonight I was eating my dinner and I dropped a pea and a tortellini down my top. They had olive oil all over them and I still pulled them out. But those fuckers were slippery, so I used my fork to dig the pea and the tortellini out. Which I then proceeded to put in my mouth – didn’t taste any different than the rest.
Fucking sick and psychotic, huh?
#2 Crazy Cat Hater
So while I was sitting here, eating my boob food and reading the 15 updates I have left to read on Facebook (by “have left” I mean that I’ve hidden all of the other 335 of my friends from my Newsfeed due to their annoying updates about CastleRock or whatever the fuck it’s called), when all of a sudden I smelled the scent of shit wafting in my living room window.
I got up and looked outside to see that a cat was using my fucking midnight jasmine plant as its liter box.
I am whole-heartedly sorry if you faithful blog followers are cat people, but I most certainly am not. I think we should go out on a mass genocide of the disgusting allergy-ridden fuckers to rid this planet of them once and for all. Okay, I don’t think that extremely, and if someone has a cat that is fine. But I am allergic and spend a lot of money tending to my plants so when someone lets their cat just roam around so that it can make me sneeze and wheeze, as well as waste my money and time tending to my midnight jasmine (I was wondering why it seemed to be not doing so well…) – well, I get a little crazy.
The cat just sat there looking at me, though – looking me in the eyes as it continued to do its thing in my plants. I felt a sneeze coming on but needed to yell at the cat to get out of my plant, so let out something so loud and heinous in sound I am pretty sure the cops are going to show up soon to see if someone died. It was something like this: “Hooooaaaaaaa aachooooooo aaaahhhhhhh IIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!”
The neighbors did stare.
After sitting back down to finish my dinner, I looked around the room as I chewed the last bite of my boob food. Our TV is broken and we are waiting for Vizio to send its replacement, so sit and look around was pretty much all I could do. Then I noticed him: Rutherford the wooden snail, perched on the speaker closest to the television.
Here is Rutherford’s story: when my husband and I were dating, we bought Rutherford on clearance at the Neiman Marcus Last Call store for something like $15. He is just a cute little nicknack type of thing that has stuck with us all these years. In our last move, though, one of Rutherford’s eyes got broken off and he got downgraded from nicknack to doorstop. Not wanting to part with Rutherford for sentimental value, yet not wanting to look like trash that has nothing but cheap shit broken nicknacks hanging around, I thought this was a good compromise.
My husband continues to follow me around, though, and pick Rutherford up off the floor daily. Every time I turn around, Rutherford has been placed back on a shelf for all to see his missing eye. We’ve talked about this. He says he understands. And yet, he continues to pick Rutherford up off the floor.
I know, this is the stupidest shit ever to get upset about, right?
This evening when I noticed that Rutherford had been put back up on display, his broken eye was staring at me. Taunting me, you might say. So I composed a text message to my husband, although didn’t send it because I knew he would be home any minute:
If you want Rutherford to be rescued from being burned in an incinerator meant for trash and diseased wood, you will kindly prevent yourself from picking him up off the floor again in the future.
I know. Psychotic shit.
So there you have them: three more ostensive signs I’ve lost it. I’m sure I’ll have more by the end of the day.