Holy hell, that snakehead fish thing? Is that not the freakiest ass thing you’ve ever seen in your life? And it’s carnivorous and also can somehow walk on land? Because God couldn’t give the people of Wisconsin enough nightmares with Jeffrey Dahmer and Ed Gein (which was, by the way, my suggestion for a design for the Wisconsin Quarter). No. Throw a wiggly flesh eating snakefish in the mix.
Think about that the next time you mock us for wearing cheese on our head.
I got home from work (or as I have affectionately begun to call it ‘the shit storm’) around 8 pm last night. Esteban was watching anime with his troop of dork scouts at Maison du Joel, so instead I wandered into the bedroom to shed myself of my autumnal wardrobe (black boot cut trousers, black long sleeved t-shirt, grey cardigan sweater and a pair of pearls, but in a surprise move, they were NOT my dove grey ass splinter pearls and rather my normal white pearls, because I like to give the girls something to talk about around the water cooler) and instead don a pair of boxer shorts (pink) and t-shirt (white).
Our house is designed stupidly. Or rather, it has so many additions that it is really more of an archetictural patchwork quilt. The main house had two bedrooms originally (now Computer Room #1 and #3), a bathroom, a living room and a kitchen, much like every other post WWII bungalows, but then someone added on a dining room off the kitchen, and then a breezeway between the garage and the house and then apparently they got some addition fever and added another bedroom and then another bedroom off the dining room.
Oh’ multi media journaling.
Note to Stalkers and Serial Killers: This is possibly a fictional representation of my house and also, I am very confident in my ability to kick your ass.
Anyway, the dotted line represents the original house. The only way to get from the front to the back is via a door between the dining room and the kitchen. That’s it. Thus, even though my bedroom and the bathroom share a wall, it’s a walk of a thousand tears to go from one to the other. Also, there are questionable light switches in the house. For instance, there are three light switches in the kitchen, but none of them by that door to the dining room, which is where the only switch for the dining room is. Thus, the only way to illuminate your travels through the house would be to simply turn on lights willy nilly as you walk through the house or simply leave them on until you decide to move away. It’s dumb, really, and therefore I regress to my childhood tendency of walking around the house without turning on the lights. At all. It drives Esteban crazy, although he does this weird thing where he walks into the dining room, flicks on the lights to assure that there are no spontaneous pits or possibly snake fish that he might step on. Then he flicks it back off again.
So last night, I was doing my normal walk through the back half of the house in the dark, and was going to leave the light off in the bedroom, but instead, some little instinctive notion made my hand shoot out and flip the bedroom light on.
And there, right where I was about to place my bare foot was a humongous pile of cat barf. I don’t even know if ‘humongous’ is a good word to convey the sheer size of this monumental heap of disgust. In fact, there should be some kind of standardized unit of measure for such things, just like we have cups and feet and cubits’ might I suggest the ‘glarg’ for cat puke? And now that we’re on the same page, this little present was easily four glargs. Perhaps even five.
And you know what the sad thing is? I just spent several minutes of my life drawing a map of my house so that I could tell you that I almost stepped in cat puke. My head is clearly broken.
Also, I watched One Hour Photo last night and was rewarded with a glimpse of Michael Vartan’s penis.
Sometimes, it’s the little things in life. Or the flaccid things.
