Stupid Day.
For those of you who may be laboring under the misconception that I am some sort of genius, I offer the following account of my day.
First, I almost mail my phone to California when the cat knocks it into an outgoing package. I only notice because it rings just as I'm preparing to tape it up. The postal employees found this quite amusing. "Stupidity," I tell them, "is a performance art."
Next, I'm stricken with a bout of upset stomach. Further contemplation reveals that it was probably caused by the handful of dog biscuits I ate yesterday. It was my own stupid fault. It seems normal to me to wonder if there was, in fact, a difference between the Milk-Bones I buy for my dogs and the off-brand imitations that my dad's dogs wouldn't eat; but to actually taste-test them, and from there investigate the various "flavors," that is not the action of a sane mind. I think no more needs to be said on that matter. (For the record, the white ones are the best, and while I think the off-brand has better flavor overall, their texture isn't as enjoyable.)
Then, in the course of topcoating my latest box, I manage to spill an entire half-bottle of acrylic sealer all over my only (not my best, my only) pair of pants that fit. Don't ask me how it happened. One minute, I'm cheerfully glossing the bottom of my box, and the next, my hand flies out of its own accord and somehow manages to knock the fucking thing toward me, where it splashes all over my leg. The stuff that wound up on the footstool and carpet was only there because it dripped off my leg first. This sealer, when wet, has the appearance and consistency of semen. I repeat: it's all over my leg. I looked like the victim of a drive-by ejaculation.
So I flee downstairs, sans pants and cursing like a drunken shipfitter, and start some laundry. Upon my return upstairs, armed with spray-bottle and paper towels, I discover that one of my cats has already seen fit to assist me in my cleanup by spilling my paint water all over the floor, turning the mixture into a repulsive slurry that is slowly seeping into my rug. I sop it up, only to realize that there is no bag in the downstairs trash, nor in the snake room trash, which is the next closest.
I flee to the kitchen garbage, and discover that Mathurin has thrown up all over the kitchen floor. As I begin to clean it up, he comes careening in at warp speed, because I'm doing something near the food bowl, and hovers over the puke, sniffing it insistently in between strident, ear-splitting howls, as if wondering whether the 30-second rule still applies. He actually tries to pull my hands down so he can get at what's in them. Irritated, covered with slowly-drying acrylic sealer, my hands full of cat-barf encrusted paper towels, I spray him in the ear with water. He goes tearing off, leaps onto the dining room table, and knocks my car keys square into the heating grate.
Now, it's only 4:00, and I've only been up for five hours. There is so much more that could go wrong today. I'm not even going to try decanting my BPAL limited editions, even though my wee empty bottles came today. The potential for horror is just too great.
All of this is funny, of course. There's un-funny as well - I've been exercising every day, but I had to take yesterday and today off because my leg is bothering me again. I expect it'll subside if I gently medicate it for a week or so, and maybe take it a little easier, but it nevertheless sucks. I'm at 80%, which is a damn sight better than the 40% or 50% I was a little under a year ago, but also a damn sight worse than the 110% I tend to demand of myself.
I'm also feeling incredibly tweeky today. I have that sick, sidelong feeling of a panic attack about to come. Like I've had too much caffeine, when I haven't had any in a week. There's no external trigger for this one, not that I can tell. Just a night of broken sleep and probably a high point in my panic cycle. It'll go away, it always does, but it still sucks to have that thin ice feeling all the time, like the sunny surface of the world is going to snap apart any moment and show you its rotting, grey guts.
I'm pretty certain that I'll feel better once I've cleaned my pants, put them back on, finished my box, and had some real food. So I'm off to do that, and I really hope that I've gotten all the stupid out of the way, and that nothing else goes wrong.
First, I almost mail my phone to California when the cat knocks it into an outgoing package. I only notice because it rings just as I'm preparing to tape it up. The postal employees found this quite amusing. "Stupidity," I tell them, "is a performance art."
Next, I'm stricken with a bout of upset stomach. Further contemplation reveals that it was probably caused by the handful of dog biscuits I ate yesterday. It was my own stupid fault. It seems normal to me to wonder if there was, in fact, a difference between the Milk-Bones I buy for my dogs and the off-brand imitations that my dad's dogs wouldn't eat; but to actually taste-test them, and from there investigate the various "flavors," that is not the action of a sane mind. I think no more needs to be said on that matter. (For the record, the white ones are the best, and while I think the off-brand has better flavor overall, their texture isn't as enjoyable.)
Then, in the course of topcoating my latest box, I manage to spill an entire half-bottle of acrylic sealer all over my only (not my best, my only) pair of pants that fit. Don't ask me how it happened. One minute, I'm cheerfully glossing the bottom of my box, and the next, my hand flies out of its own accord and somehow manages to knock the fucking thing toward me, where it splashes all over my leg. The stuff that wound up on the footstool and carpet was only there because it dripped off my leg first. This sealer, when wet, has the appearance and consistency of semen. I repeat: it's all over my leg. I looked like the victim of a drive-by ejaculation.
So I flee downstairs, sans pants and cursing like a drunken shipfitter, and start some laundry. Upon my return upstairs, armed with spray-bottle and paper towels, I discover that one of my cats has already seen fit to assist me in my cleanup by spilling my paint water all over the floor, turning the mixture into a repulsive slurry that is slowly seeping into my rug. I sop it up, only to realize that there is no bag in the downstairs trash, nor in the snake room trash, which is the next closest.
I flee to the kitchen garbage, and discover that Mathurin has thrown up all over the kitchen floor. As I begin to clean it up, he comes careening in at warp speed, because I'm doing something near the food bowl, and hovers over the puke, sniffing it insistently in between strident, ear-splitting howls, as if wondering whether the 30-second rule still applies. He actually tries to pull my hands down so he can get at what's in them. Irritated, covered with slowly-drying acrylic sealer, my hands full of cat-barf encrusted paper towels, I spray him in the ear with water. He goes tearing off, leaps onto the dining room table, and knocks my car keys square into the heating grate.
Now, it's only 4:00, and I've only been up for five hours. There is so much more that could go wrong today. I'm not even going to try decanting my BPAL limited editions, even though my wee empty bottles came today. The potential for horror is just too great.
All of this is funny, of course. There's un-funny as well - I've been exercising every day, but I had to take yesterday and today off because my leg is bothering me again. I expect it'll subside if I gently medicate it for a week or so, and maybe take it a little easier, but it nevertheless sucks. I'm at 80%, which is a damn sight better than the 40% or 50% I was a little under a year ago, but also a damn sight worse than the 110% I tend to demand of myself.
I'm also feeling incredibly tweeky today. I have that sick, sidelong feeling of a panic attack about to come. Like I've had too much caffeine, when I haven't had any in a week. There's no external trigger for this one, not that I can tell. Just a night of broken sleep and probably a high point in my panic cycle. It'll go away, it always does, but it still sucks to have that thin ice feeling all the time, like the sunny surface of the world is going to snap apart any moment and show you its rotting, grey guts.
I'm pretty certain that I'll feel better once I've cleaned my pants, put them back on, finished my box, and had some real food. So I'm off to do that, and I really hope that I've gotten all the stupid out of the way, and that nothing else goes wrong.