Today I Saved a Birdie and Saw Jesus

You're dying to know what I did this weekend, aren't you?

Of course you are, because it's my blog and I can write whatever I want, and so I will pretend that you are interested and it would be nice if you would wipe that disinterested look off your face and humor me a little bit.

Never mind. I saved a baby bird today. Dar will be so proud of me, because she's always doing that bird rescuing thing. Not that I did it the way she does it. Not at all. In fact, in all honesty, I didn't do a thing.

There was a baby cardinal that fell into my window well and my daughters and I tried to reach down there and get him, but it's too deep. So, after belly crawling through the rose bushes to try and get to the little guy, and getting myself pricked and scraped from head to toe, I had a streak of absolute brilliance. GO INTO THE BASEMENT AND OPEN THE WINDOW TO GET THE BIRD OUT. (Insert "Duh" here.) Nobody ever said I wasn't a moron.

So there I was at the basement window all ready to get the bird. Except for one thing... birds creep me out a little. I mean, I don't want the little fella' to die, but I don't really want to touch him either. So I grabbed a towel from behind the bar, opened the window, and threw the towel over the bird to trap him so I could pick him up. Only... I still couldn't pick him up. Even wrapped in the towel, he creeped me out a little.

So I called Barb, my neighbor up the street. In our house, whenever there is something you can't quite bring yourself to do, you call Barb. I call Barb a lot when Mr. Blognut isn't home and she always comes.

And did Barb save that bird? You bet she did. She reached right in there and got the little birdie, took him outside, and put him under the tree where his mama lives.

And now you are wondering why the title of my post says I saw Jesus, right? Let me just tell you that I was messing around in the firewood and I reached in there and nearly picked up the biggest, fugliest, mother-humping spider with forty-seven eyeballs and more fur than a brown bear on it, that I have ever seen. By 'nearly picked up', I mean that I reached out and picked up the piece of wood where he was crawling and came within mere inches of his mother-humping fugliness.

THAT is when I saw Jesus.

Right before I blacked out.

Dear Alarm Clock, You Suck!

All right, dammit! I'm up. It's a crying shame that you have to be the very first thing I hear or see every single stupid morning. Are you happy with this little arrangement that we have?

You know 'our arrangement' where you get to sit there on my nightstand, mocking me until I want to cry and/or poke my eyes out, every morning? Yes, that one. The deal where you start your incessant beeping and jeering after I have been asleep for about 22 minutes. The one where, upon being rudely dredged from what is finally a deep sleep, I am forced to slap the living shit out of the snooze button and pray for another 9 minutes of angry-at-you sleep.

I realize that my issue of waking up every friggin' night is my own problem, but you seem to take great pleasure in waiting until I finally drift off to sleep again to suddenly pounce on me and eat my face. YOU ARE MEAN AND YOU ARE NOT HELPING ME. NOT AT ALL.

Although you may be an alarm clock in this life, I happen to believe that you were a death row prison guard in a former life. And your next life? You’re going to be the Devil, himself. Why else would you take such great pleasure in making me miserable every morning? Seriously, it explains everything.

So yes, I freely admit to having an unnatural hatred for an inanimate object. It's only crazy if you think about it too long; so don't do that. Just do me a favor and ease your way over to the other side of the nightstand and pitch your sorry ass right out the window, 'cause next time I slap the snooze button, I'm going to do it with a Louisville Slugger. We'll see who's laughing then.

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Fear This, Spider!

Ok, so here's the deal. I never, ever wanted to have that look on my face again. You know, the face you make right before you shit yourself. Now I can't promise it won't happen, but I confronted a major fear last night and you all will be so proud of me.

I killed the biggest friggin' spider you have ever seen. Swear. To. God. This thing was bigger than Rhode Island. I know what it was doing here, too. It came to try and kick my ass because of that spidery post I did a while back, and because I may have made fun of Mr. Blognut the other day. But I crossed out what I wrote about Mr. Blognut, so it shouldn't even really count. Should it? I vote NO. I mean, here in Blogland, you can say whatever you want so long as you cross it out or put a smiley face after it, right?

Anyway... the spider. You want to know how I killed the spider that ate Rhode Island. Right?

Here's what happened. I was sitting here, RIGHT HERE, at my computer reading blogs. It was a dark and rainy night, and I could hear the distant sirens signaling impending doom. Suddenly a chill ran down my spine and I caught movement out of the corner of my beady, little eye. Oh wait. I don't have a beady, little eye. The spider did. The spider totally had about 9 beady, little eyes. Anyway, there he was, moving down my wall at a full gallop. Who did he think he was kidding? He was running so fast that I could see the fur on his legs blowing in his own gallop-created breeze.

I screamed, "Moses on a Motorbike!" and sprang into action. I looked left, I looked right, I hollered for Mr. Blognut to no avail, and I realized that I was trapped here, RIGHT HERE, behind my desk until morning if I didn't do something. In my adrenalin-induced surge of brilliance, I grabbed a magazine and flicked the spider from the wall to the floor in front of my desk in one swift movement. He sat there staring at me with his nine beady, little eyes and then angry puffs of smoke came out of his nostrils while at least two of his feet starting pawing at the ground as though he were about to charge right at me.

I clenched my puckering butt cheeks and I leapt right to the top of my desk. I pelted that enormous spider from on high, with first one magazine, and then another. He bobbed, he weaved, and THEN I got him. I dropped the biggest magazine I could find right onto his back. He proceeded to drag the magazine four or five feet before finally succumbing to his inevitable death and Blognut reigns victorious over her fear of spiders, and over the spider that ate Rhode Island.

Now I just need someone to come wipe this up for me.

How To Make a Little Boy Stop Talking

You know how I'm always whining about how my son talks incessantly? And how he sometimes makes my ears bleed from all that talking? And how every story he tells me, no matter how recently it happened, or whether I was there to witness the entire event from start to finish, somehow seems to start with Genesis and work its way forward, one painful day at a time? (Seriously, even to tell me what he had for lunch, starts here...In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

I've discovered the secret! You want to know how to shut him up? You know, in case you ever meet him? (Trust me, you'll recognize him. He'll be the talking boy.)

Ask him about the girl in his class who likes him. This will render him speechless for a few precious moments of silence and allow you the opportunity to make your exit. Be ready now - it's a very narrow window of time. You have to be on your game.

When I discovered this magic question the other evening, we were discussing things like love and marriage. You know, just to make The Boy writhe with discomfort, and to give myself a good laugh. (Here at Blognut Manor, I am in charge of teasing The Boy and I take that seriously.)


When I asked The Boy how to tell if two people are in love, guess what he said?

He said, "When they make 'love eyes' at each other and can't eat their dinner."

"And then maybe they start kissing until somebody tells them to get a room."

Isn't he charming? He'll go far with the ladies.

Is He Trying to Kill Me?

Hello Blogosphere!

You might find yourself wondering what I'm doing awake at this ungodly hour, and you wouldn't be alone in that. I, too, am wondering about that. It's around 5am here at Blognut Manor, and there's no good reason for me to be sitting here babbling at my computer, except that someone tried to kill me in my sleep. (Shush! I am NOT blowing this out of proportion.)

If you ask me, there was a blatant attempt on my life and that's the way I'm going to tell this story. Somebody tried to suffocate me. I mean, it isn't like I woke up and Mr. Blognut was holding a pillow over my face or something. He wouldn't do that. Wait! Would he do that? Maybe that's the question I should be asking myself. But he did come up to bed well after I was asleep, and he did close up our bedroom windows, and he did turn off my ceiling fan. WTF? How long has this man been sleeping with me? Even people who don't sleep with me know that I require the ceiling fan to be blowing on me. I don't care if it's minus five degrees; I gotta have it. Anything less is death to me.

Further evidence that he tried to kill me?

We were outside with the neighbors until late last night, or maybe early this morning, and we had a fire going in the outdoor fire pit. (I say outdoor fire pit as though it were common for people to have indoor fire pits 'round these parts.) There was also a fair amount of beer flowing.

What does this mean?

That the air in my bedroom smells like a campfirey, beer farty, post-apocalyptic disaster. Mother of God! Anyone in their right mind would open windows and turn on ceiling fans to combat this condition, not the other way around. Clearly, he is trying to kill me not only by suffocating me, but also by burning the hair out of my nose and melting the skin right off of me.

Just a little while ago I woke up clawing at my covers and gasping for air. In my dizzy oxygen-starved state of mind it was clear to me that Mr. Blognut did this on purpose because I might have told a story last night about the time he screamed like a girl gasped, and said, "Oh my!", when he went to kill the huge spider that I had trapped under the plunger in the middle of the kitchen floor. (No, I don't expect any of that to make sense to you.) Needless to say, there are two sides to that story, too. Maybe I'll tell it sometime.

Holiday Weekend Weather Forecast

Happy Holiday Weekend!

I'm planning to do as little as possible. We've got a few outdoor projects going on at home, like getting the pool open, and getting the yard in order. We might even try washing the cars and the dogs. I suppose if I'm feeling really energetic, I could do windows and screens, too.

The problem?

I can't tell if this is a good weather forecast, or a bad one...

I'll Be Damned

*whispers* It's early, and I hate to go patting myself on the back or anything, but I think that the project implementation that I've been working on for the last three months is up and running this morning. And that the last minute set-up I worked on yesterday afternoon, while in a vegetative and nearly brain-dead state, may actually have been correct.

A victory? Yeah. I'm going to count it as a win even though there was no one else in the race.

I'm a Total Schmuck and I Know It!

<--- That's me right there, and I'm hanging my head in shame. I need to deal with my horrendous naughtiness today. I've been stacking up blogger stuff without sending out the appropriate acknowledgements and the guilt is eating away at me.

Sherri, over at Matter of Fact, gave me The Lovely Blog Award. And, Comedy Goddess gave it to me weeks ago recently and is probably wondering if I have been schooled in the way of manners by now. THANK YOU! I do have manners Comedy Goddess, I just temporarily have my head up my ass forgot them. I am sorry for the delay!


The blogger formerly known as 'Currently Untitled' but now named Crazy is just me amplified, gave me The Awesome Blogger Award recently several weeks ago, too. I not only managed to look like a jackass to Comedy Goddess, but also to the blogger who has now selected an identity and deemed herself to be crazy... amplified. Hopefully I have not driven you to that title.




This one came from KekeLynn a few days ago, so I'm not too late with this one. Thank you!

Now then - filed in the drawer under "Other Obligations" we have some things I was supposed to do in exchange for a couple of these awards. For Sherri, I needed to pick 15 blogs and paste their links. Call me a rule breaker (Go ahead, do it!), and glance to your left where you will find a blog roll. Pick any 15; they're all good. And, if you haven't been over to Sherri's blog, please go there and say hello because she's one of the nicest people in the universe after me and she's someone you should know. Plus, I'm hoping she's going to forgive me for not putting 15 links into this post. :(

For Crazy (can I call you that for short?) and KekeLynn, I'm supposed to make a list of 7 things that make me awesome. Mother of God! There aren't seven, ladies. Sorry. There's hardly one some days, so seven is just not realistic.

Also, if you're looking around here wondering if I'm blowing off meme responsibilities I've picked up recently, I'm getting there. I am. I'll be a list-making, craft-making, promise-making fool. Soon.

Is THIS Too OOKY?

This is Mr. Blognut. I love him. A couple of you noticed that he got his own sentence in my last post. It's just because.

See... I've been a little 'off' lately. I've been getting a far away look in my eye and mentally wandering off to fight the demons in my personal jungle, and Mr. Blognut puts up with this crap from me. He tells me that he loves me and he pulls me back into this world, to this place, where I have the life that he and I have created together and I don't have to let in anyone who doesn't belong.

That hand holding mine is there day and night. It reminds me that Mr. Blognut and me, and our little Blognutians, are all I have to worry about, and the rest of it will find a place of its own.

He is as wonderful as I say he is... every bit of it.

Thar She Blows!

Okay, so here's the deal... I'm going to Mexico in just a few weeks. Mexico. Yay! Me. Foo foo drinks with umbrellas in them. Mr. Blognut. Foo foo drinks with umbrellas in them. The Blognutians. Juice boxes with bendy straws in them. Beaches. Sand. Sun. Food.

Crap! I mean that in the expletive way, not the verb way. (Hopefully I will not get the Mexican Quick Step, I will not be drinking any water. See above.) Crap! I have to put on a swimming suit. Well, I don't have to, but other beach patrons are likely to complain and throw sand into THEIR OWN EYES if I come down to the beach nekkid. And the skinny-bitch women on the beach might start to feel superior or something, and then I'd be force to snap one of them in two and use her to beat her skinny-bitch friends to death.

Anyway, we were talking about me. I was about to disclose to you that there is a little extra me to go around lately. I'm taking up more space, bordering on chubby, packing on the poundage, blooming, expanding, swelling, adding chins! Call it what you want to call it, but HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM. Why couldn't I get a bout of swine flu and lose 12 lbs before the trip? Maybe I could take up anorexia for a few weeks. Maybe I could just PUT THE FORK DOWN and give up the peanut butter M&M's. Yeah, right. That IS asking too much.



In addition to the 'extra me, extra mass' issue, I'm also a lovely shade of fish-belly white. I actually hand out sunglasses to other patrons on the beach in an effort to protect the rest of humanity from the sort of blindness that can occur during a solar eclipse. Nature made me a red head with alabaster skin.

Tanning lotions make me look like an Oompa Loompa, so that idea is out. Spray tans are likely to have that same effect. Plus, I'll have to slather on Sunblock 5,000,000,000 and, with all that lotion, I'll end up looking all shiny and white anyway. It's hopeless.

What The Hell Have They Been Feeding You?

Dear Mr. Customer,

Yes, I heard you fart today. I know you thought you got away with it, but I heard the unmistakable rumble of a jackhammer in your sansabelt trousers. Nice velocity, dude! My whole office shook. I applaud you.

I have but one tiny, little question. What the hell did you have to eat today? Did you eat a dead animal? Either that or you’ve been packing a liver-sausage fanny melter since the day you were born. Mother of God, Man! The whole thing would have been much funnier if you’d done it in a bar, but this is a professional place of business and I had to keep my cool.

I’m sure you noticed that the visibility in my office dropped to a mere 2 inches (or maybe it was the tears streaming down my face that blinded me), and the temperature spiked to about 120F degrees. You may also have noticed the twitch that I developed in my right eye, and the way that I had to cover my face with both hands to avoid gagging. Let me tell you how much I appreciate you sharing your intestinal mushroom cloud with me! Next time, just call me on the phone; don't come into my office. I cannot stress this enough.

Oh, one other thing. Mercifully, the noxious gas you released into my breathing space has robbed me of my sense of taste. How many days do you think it will be before it returns to me?

Please do not feel the need to respond in person; an email will be just fine.

Thanks,
Blognut

WTF Wednesday?

I don't know about you, but it's Wednesday and I don't know how I got here, or what I'm doing about it.

And who is this lady behind me, and is she going to let that thing eat me?

Blognut - 1, Bush - 0

So there's no confusion - I went to battle with <--this kind of bush. Not the other kind.-->



I worked out in the yard the other day. I know that sounds whack, but I like to do that on days when the planets are perfectly aligned and the weather is just right, and it was nice because the kids all got in the way pitched in and helped. Since the kids were nearby pulling up flowers instead of weeds, I only gave over to a swearing rant one time. ONE TIME. So that means I experienced personal growth and success, too.

See, I was digging up some bushes on the side of the house because they’re mostly dead and the neighbors are about to summon the landscape police we’re going to replace them. So I grabbed my handy shovel and dug right in to the task. I dug from the right, I dug from the left, I jumped up and down on the shovel handle, I kicked the bush, I kicked the shovel, I rested, and I began again. Then I identified the problem and said to the bush, “You know what your problem is, Bitch? You don’t know that you suck and I’m about to kick your ass.”

The bush said ‘Bring it’ did not care. Oh no it did not; it just sat there mocking me like some kind of bushy bush without enough sense to know that it’s half dead and it has to go. It had a smug look on its bushy little face, so I kicked it again. I think the bush actually laughed at me and lunged out at my legs. However, my daughters were now weak with laughter and this brought Mr. Blognut to my rescue. In the course of about 2 minutes, the bush and the ground were no longer joined together, and I was reminded that my husband is hawt. Oh yes he is.

Is it a victory? I mean, technically, I did not actually kick the bush’s ass. Technically speaking, Mr. Blognut did it, but I arranged for the beat down, didn’t I? I'm marking this down as a win.

Spam, Anyone?

Can we talk about spam for a minute? Not that icky, meaty, weird shit in the square can...


I mean the icky, ‘meaty’, weird shit in my inbox.

Who ARE the people writing this crap? What will it take to get them a life? Just today, I got these offers:

The Job 4 U
A) I wasn’t looking for a job.
B) I probably don’t want to work for someone who speaks the language of license plates.
C) If you’ve got such a great career opportunity, why are you soliciting people on the internet that you’ve never even met to come and work for you?

Talking Dirty For Beginners
A) I am well-versed in the art of talking dirty; send me the advanced tutorial.
B) I could probably embarrass the paint right off your walls.
C) If you’re so good at talking dirty, why aren’t you working a phone-sex hotline and getting filthy rich?

Finally, The Diet Pill That Will Melt Away Your Pounds
A) Are you calling me fat? ‘Cause I will hurt you if you’re calling me fat.
B) Yeah, right. You’ve actually discovered ‘skinny in a can’ and you want to share it with me.
C) If your pill really works, maybe you should call Oprah. I’ll buy it when she tells me to buy it.

Add Inches Tonight
A) Know your market, Stumpy. I do NOT have one of those.
B) Stop preying on the ‘little guys’ of America.
C) Contact the senders of all of these other emails. You all could work together and change the lives of every unemployed, stumpy, fat guy who wants to learn to talk dirty and get himself smacked.

And while we’re having this spam discussion, let’s not forget about the poor ambassadors from Nigeria who want to help me claim the $30,000,000 left to me by my (insert unknown relative here). After all, everyone wants to give me that kind of money in exchange for my depositing an advance toward legal fees in the form of a check drawn on the Bank of Bullshit into my account, and then wiring them $2500 for the processing costs. What nice, thoughtful people they are, right?




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Google Sent You Here?

It’s time to review the Google searches that brought the poor, unsuspecting public to my little corner of the blogosphere in April. I think Google likes to pull my chain.

There were some interesting ones this month, and frankly, some of those people searching around on the internet are a little suspicious if you ask me. Of course, they probably say the same about me, but I’ll let you decide.

words that don’t mean anything
Uh huh. I see Google continues to hold a grudge against me for all of my complaints about its search engine. Seriously? I think SOME of my words have meaning.

why not marry for the money
I’m sure I didn’t say that. I didn’t do it either.

what’s in my purse
Well, certainly not money! A couple of tampons and a lipstick, probably. We can all have a look together someday.

words about ass
Really? I’ve given this some thought, Google. Nowhere in my blog have I written a post about this, but I’m sure thinking about it now!

is Avril Lavigne already dead
How the hell should I know? I’m sure I could Google it, but clearly, I’d be brought right back here to The Land of No Answers.

people to go back in time and smack in the face
Google! If someone is searching for people to smack in the face, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t send them here. I really don’t like to be hit.

kiss my pooper bunny
This search REALLY made me wish I had internet tracking devices that would lead me to the person who initially requested it. Are you kidding me? I’m not kissing anyone’s pooper. No kidding.

crab ass pills
Do they have those? Personally, I prefer the anti-crab ass pills. Got any?

other words that mean crabby
Oh! Let’s make a list, shall we? We’ll try to use a different one each day; it’ll add variety around here. Anyone?

Finally, my personal favorite:

blow mindless
Hee hee! I probably could if I applied myself, but I don’t think this is the website the searcher really wanted to find.

Is This Where IT Came From?

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Lately, there has been a lot of talk around here about swine flu, and there have been a number of schools closed in my area because of it. My son's soccer club sent out an email to all of the team parents stating that the kids would no longer be allowed to line up and shake hands or give "high fives" after the games. Instead, the kids are instructed to keep their hands behind their backs or down at their sides, simply make eye contact with the opposing team's players, give a nod, and say, "Good game."

Trust me on this, watching a bunch of little boys do this, after they've just spent an hour body slamming and sweating all over each other, is a comedy unto itself. If I didn't already enjoy watching the game, this new finishing touch would make getting up at dark o'clock on the weekend and traveling 25 miles to another town to watch soccer as the sun rises, worth every minute.

By the way, I received an interesting email today. They're unverified statistics - it was a chain message, but it may have a point, regardless of whether or not the numbers are accurate. It said, 90 people in the US have gotten the swine flu and we're all running around handing out face masks and hand gel. Thiry-four million people in the world are HIV positive, and we can't pass out condoms without a fight. Just something to think about....

So... with all of that said, do I still go to Mexico next month, or not? I say YES.

Thoughts I Need to Share With My Dentist

Dear Student Dentist,

You hurt me today and I do not forgive you.

First of all, let's think for a second, shall we? When I come to the dentist because I have nerves exposed, said nerves should not be rinsed with a direct shot of ice water, at least not while I am conscious. If that's what they taught you at school yesterday, you should ask for your money back.

Also, when you shoot ice water into my brain, and turn me into a projectile with Tourette's Syndrome, you don't get to look surprised if I swear like a sailor. You also don't get to look surprised if one of my bad words was directed at you. That shit hurt. Trust me, had it not been for the death grip I had on the arms of the chair, I would have punched you in the face*. (Incidentally, I'm not sure you didn't hit me upside the head with a sledgehammer while I was out of it and I'd like to see the video if there is one.)

And another thing, I may have mentioned this once before, but if you have propped my mouth open with a doorstop wedge, and have shoved in a number of scary farm tools with pointy-points and sharpy-sharps, don't ask me if I'm all uncomfortable; just assume it. This is NOT a good time for us to chat, I AM uncomfortable (where 'uncomfortable' equals 'about to pass out'), and if I look a little green, it's because I can't bear the sound of the shit you are doing in my mouth or the fact that I can taste my own blood. Just FINISH, okay? If I would have screamed, 'No!' in answer to that question, would you have stopped?

Sincerely,
Blognut

PS. NEVER mention a patient's zit. I know it's there. I know you know it's there. We don't need to address it. If you do it again, I will ask about the long hair in your nose.

PPS. There's a strip you can buy to put on your nose and it cleans out your pores. I know you can afford it.

*No dentists were hurt during the events leading up to this post, but BLOGNUT WAS MOST DEFINITELY HURT!

Blognut Rumors, Debunked

There have been a fair amount of rumors around the blogosphere that I am round and that I have blue hair. Neither of these things are true... yet.

I'll admit to being a little bit wider than I probably ought to be, but I'm not exactly round. It's not even a goal... but maybe it should be, because I think I could totally achieve it.

Anyway, if you must know... this is what a Blognut looks like when it first gets home from work... still in its Banker Costume... and being greeted by a pack of wolves.



I do not know this person, and I don't know where she picked up that extra chin.

This is what a Blognut looks like when it's not at work...



Blognuts dress really nice, don't they? Who doesn't like running around in hoodie sweatshirts and heart covered pajama pants?

So... as you can see, no blue hair... and not quite round. It's all good, right?

By the way, if I confused your reader by hitting publish instead of save a few minutes ago, and then clawing the post right back out of the blogosphere, please forgive me. Nobody ever said Blognuts weren't morons and they most likely never will.

Arachnophobia!

You know how much I hate spiders, right? Well, maybe you don’t know, but you do now. I HATE SPIDERS. I don’t wish them all dead, because I’m a big person like that. I can hate you without hoping you die. However, if you keep getting all up in my space knowing full well that I hate you, I can’t be responsible for what happens to you. You know what I mean?

Spiders are simply icky, their webs are icky, and the bugs that they trap in those webs are even ickier. (Stop calling me a sissy.) (It’s mean!) So tonight when I walked out onto my side porch to let the dogs out, and I walked right through a disgustingly huge and sticky spider web, I was less than thrilled. WAY less than thrilled, you know? (I can still hear you calling me a sissy. Cut it out!)

Mercifully, it was dark out and I could not see the spider. But WAIT A MINUTE! I could NOT SEE the spider! You know what it means when you walk through a web and you can’t see the spider? It means the spider is ON YOU! FUCKING HELL! I did what any hysterical person would do in the face of such an emergency. I did the, “Oh my God, there’s a spider on me!” dance for, like, a full 15 minutes until I had to pee because, well, it was cold out and I had been dancing because Oh my God! There was a spider on me! ON ME!

Here’s what I ran through in my head – just repeat this over and over for 15 minutes in order to feel the whole experience with me.

IT’S ON ME! It’s here somewhere, isn’t it? Maybe not. YES! YES, it’s here somewhere and I think I can feel it in my hair! And in my bra! And on my back, right in the spot between the shoulder blades where no human can reach. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN? Did he have friends? OH GOD! He had friends and they are ALL on me! What if it’s some kind of poisonous, swine flu carrying, TARANTULA?!! If it bites me, I could die! DIE! Brian better not marry some tramp half his age if I die, and he better keep liking me best because I’m the one who broke him in for the last 20 years. Oh my God! I think the spider is in my ear now. *sticking finger in ear and swishing around* *tipping head sideways and banging on porch railing* Maybe I should stop, drop, and roll. They say if you cut off all the oxygen to the spider, it will die. Oh wait, that’s fire. FUCK! What am I going to do? I can’t jump in the pool, we haven’t even opened it yet and it’s cold out. THEY’RE ON ME. What’s that in my hair? That’s not the wind blowing around up there, that’s a whole marching band of spiders. OH GOD!!!! Do we have bug spray? Forget it, I’m going to strip off my clothes right out here on the porch and find these fuckers right now. OH MY GOD! Maybe if I throw myself up against the house a whole bunch of times, I’ll squish them all dead. Yeah, do that! No! Wait! Then I’ll have guts on me. OH GOD!!!! I’m going to DIE! Take me now. Just take me.

As you can see, I did not die. However, I do have a little nervous tic now. It’ll last about a week, then it’ll go away until the next time I walk through a web.