(no subject)
New career goal: cleaning out my closets for a living. but who will pay for this? obviously I am too much overhead to even live my own life. of course this is due to my own extravagant nature - but who can deny nature? surely not me. there are clearly enough wrongs in society without me committing them against myself. and so the extravagance shall ensue, unharmed, laced in caviar and Jimmy Choo, dipped in fine Swiss chocolate, and placed in an envelope of white gold.
And then more on closet cleaning...
Yesterday I was taking inventory of all of the items in closet #2, disposing of rotten memories, and knitting my dust bunnies into threadbare old man sweaters. It seemed like a fine activity for my last vacation day and my cats were in agreeance as they sat on the book shelves smoking their stoggie cigars. Seeing that they often predict future events in my compartment, it would have been nice had they disclosed the following: in the ceiling of compartment closet #2 there was a latch - the latch was attached to a small door, and that small door lead only to a secret concave. Now even I could have thought of something more imaginative, but when I discovered the latched door, I thought 'well heck, why not see what this is about?'. Within the concave were the ordinary items that one might expect to find in such a place - dirt, mold, insects, and villainous trolls. After peering around for a few moments in absolute boredom (I mean come on - the trolls weren't even murdering puppies up there, they were just sitting around a camp fire roasting dust bunnies) I closed the door and went back to my chore. It wasn't long before the find was completely abolished from my mind and I was in tidying heaven once again. But of course, those trolls simply could not keep their existance to themselves. The next thing I knew, there was a rainbow stabbing me right in the eye. Now, this is probably the one and only thing that Visine will not rid. It was a little odd too, in that the rainbow was missing the colour blue. I'm not sure if it was even a rainbow then. I wouldn't even know who to ask. Anyway, after rhyming off the various cuss words that I have learned here and there, I sought out the blinding source. It was coming from the latched cieling door and with much aggravation, I opened it once again, gearing up to give the aggravator heck. I spurted something along the lines of 'listen here you God dammed Care bear Mother Fuckers, if I have to...'. By this point I found myself on the rotating spit above their camp fire. I am quite confident that I would make a lovely main dish, but what they didn't understand was that I had not penciled this activity into my agenda and therefore I would likely have some sort of obsessive compulsive seizure, which would surely spoil whatever bits of me that they planned to eat. I tried to express this fact so that they would at least consider a rain cheque, but if you know trolls the way that I think I do, then you know that once they plan on roasting you to death, there is really no turning back. So they cooked me. At first it wasn't so bad at all, I needed the tan and it looked quite nice. They were even nice enough to sing Irish folk songs and baste me with my own drippings. But then came the obsessive compulsive seizure as my mind came back to the fact that I should be below knee-deep in closet contents. I call it a seisure, but to the untrained eye it would probably look more like drug with drawl. I could tell that I wasn't even near done when they started sticking the thermometer into my gut to check the temperature. The fifth prod into my belly button set me off. I convulsed with enough thrust to send me rolling off the spit, into the fire (which in turn set me on fire), and off further into the cave. I was not until that moment aware of the fact that the inside of the cave was actually a wax museum dedicated purely to sculptures of my cats. It did occur to me that the cats probably put them up to this as they tend to be self-serving bastards. A sculpture of Ben fishing for mice in a pet store broke my fall nicely. Although I was a bit charred, I did manage to get up and grasp Ben's fishing rod as a defense tool, should the trolls wish to disrupt my exit. I traveled back through the cave to the exit, seeing that there was no villainous trolls in site. I crawled back through the latched door, closing it behind me and made haste for the first aid kit.
I think that there was more to this story, but there was some sort of memory erasing activity afoot after I covered myself in band aids... I'll let you know if I remember anything else.
And then more on closet cleaning...
Yesterday I was taking inventory of all of the items in closet #2, disposing of rotten memories, and knitting my dust bunnies into threadbare old man sweaters. It seemed like a fine activity for my last vacation day and my cats were in agreeance as they sat on the book shelves smoking their stoggie cigars. Seeing that they often predict future events in my compartment, it would have been nice had they disclosed the following: in the ceiling of compartment closet #2 there was a latch - the latch was attached to a small door, and that small door lead only to a secret concave. Now even I could have thought of something more imaginative, but when I discovered the latched door, I thought 'well heck, why not see what this is about?'. Within the concave were the ordinary items that one might expect to find in such a place - dirt, mold, insects, and villainous trolls. After peering around for a few moments in absolute boredom (I mean come on - the trolls weren't even murdering puppies up there, they were just sitting around a camp fire roasting dust bunnies) I closed the door and went back to my chore. It wasn't long before the find was completely abolished from my mind and I was in tidying heaven once again. But of course, those trolls simply could not keep their existance to themselves. The next thing I knew, there was a rainbow stabbing me right in the eye. Now, this is probably the one and only thing that Visine will not rid. It was a little odd too, in that the rainbow was missing the colour blue. I'm not sure if it was even a rainbow then. I wouldn't even know who to ask. Anyway, after rhyming off the various cuss words that I have learned here and there, I sought out the blinding source. It was coming from the latched cieling door and with much aggravation, I opened it once again, gearing up to give the aggravator heck. I spurted something along the lines of 'listen here you God dammed Care bear Mother Fuckers, if I have to...'. By this point I found myself on the rotating spit above their camp fire. I am quite confident that I would make a lovely main dish, but what they didn't understand was that I had not penciled this activity into my agenda and therefore I would likely have some sort of obsessive compulsive seizure, which would surely spoil whatever bits of me that they planned to eat. I tried to express this fact so that they would at least consider a rain cheque, but if you know trolls the way that I think I do, then you know that once they plan on roasting you to death, there is really no turning back. So they cooked me. At first it wasn't so bad at all, I needed the tan and it looked quite nice. They were even nice enough to sing Irish folk songs and baste me with my own drippings. But then came the obsessive compulsive seizure as my mind came back to the fact that I should be below knee-deep in closet contents. I call it a seisure, but to the untrained eye it would probably look more like drug with drawl. I could tell that I wasn't even near done when they started sticking the thermometer into my gut to check the temperature. The fifth prod into my belly button set me off. I convulsed with enough thrust to send me rolling off the spit, into the fire (which in turn set me on fire), and off further into the cave. I was not until that moment aware of the fact that the inside of the cave was actually a wax museum dedicated purely to sculptures of my cats. It did occur to me that the cats probably put them up to this as they tend to be self-serving bastards. A sculpture of Ben fishing for mice in a pet store broke my fall nicely. Although I was a bit charred, I did manage to get up and grasp Ben's fishing rod as a defense tool, should the trolls wish to disrupt my exit. I traveled back through the cave to the exit, seeing that there was no villainous trolls in site. I crawled back through the latched door, closing it behind me and made haste for the first aid kit.
I think that there was more to this story, but there was some sort of memory erasing activity afoot after I covered myself in band aids... I'll let you know if I remember anything else.