The Anguish

I think the house is trying to kill me.

Crazy, I may be, but I can’t help but wonder. I start planting living things around the house, I get stung by a bee. My poor pinky toe, an innocent bystander, was wounded in this first attack.

Then, after deciding gardening may not be my forte (which was proved by the fact that it is only 4 days later, and lo, my plants are shriveled), I attempt to paint my office/guestroom/bellydance practice room/brothel (for my friends who stay the night with sig others and boink on the couch…you know who you are). I begin by coating the cartoon animals on the wall with a layer of toxic/scary paint, which then gets all over my hands, cannot be washed off, and I have to bathe in paint thinner.

After a few days of silently waiting for the house to go to sleep. I attempt to cover the room with colored paint (to which Trent commented, “I like it. It looks like diarrhea. Good job”). All seems to be going well until my neighbor rings the doorbell incessantly until I run outside in my giant, paint covered t-shirt, with no shoes, and bang my foot on the front doorframe. I now have a blood blister on my other pinky toe.

Now I must go and attempt to learn how to golf with a bunch of engineers and then attempt to not lose another volleyball game while sober with a giant blood blister on my pinky toe. I think I should just get sloshed instead. Odds are I’ll get hurt anyway, so why not be singing Lindsay Lohen loudly and out of tune while doing it?