Already this morning, I have managed to burn my pinky finger and narrowly escape the grips of a huge nasty centipede that has been taking over my basement living space.
This is the second time that I have seen the nasty bugger and the second time that he has just vanished into thin air. It's like he knows I am going for the shoe because every time I pick it up and aim and point, gone and then all I can think is where the hell did he go? Did he just drop down to the ground? Is there a hole in the wall and if so am I going to step on him? Does that mean he has a family? Basically I think that not only will I eat spiders in my sleep, but that the centipede will be crawling overhead of me and then decide to just drop down as it so conveniently does when I am trying to kill it. Why doesn't he just want to die? Just meet my shoe already. Gheeze.
Now yesterday, I watched Rise of the Planet of the Apes. I told you without explanation that I was no longer allowed to watch love sappy movies because they are ruining my life? Well they are. Who cries during Bridesmaids (what I saw the day the disclaimer went out) and Planet of the Apes? Worst part is that they are not even intentionally love sappy movies. There main purpose is not the portrayal of love, but comedy and suspense. How do I find the undertones of love in everything?
Needless to say, I found myself crying and screaming at the television, "Just tell him you love him!! You know you do! Just tell him!" I also found tears in my eyes more than once. Caesar touched and tugged at my heart strings with his above average intelligence and animal instincts rolled into one. How come the human wasn't able to express something so fundamental in relationship building? Affection is natural and necessary. Man is a social creature. Just saying. I also yelled when whatever his name is came to get Caesar out of the hell hole for primates and Caesar closed the door on him. I had to yell that he better not walk away!! Did he walk away? Of course. Caesar would have gone right on home with you if you would have fought just an inch, an inch. That is not a big measurement, but that simple thing would have made all the difference, especially when the other individual is hurt and believes that you don't care in the first place. It was killing Caesar to make that move, but in the end it was best for him because scientist guy just wasn't strong enough to handle such a sensitive soul.
See? What was that? I have some serious issues. I'm sure it is because I am a sappy helplessly hopeless romantic. I make myself sick. I may also need to discuss this with someone with a degree and a couch.
So. To add to my list of morning things done, I have also severed the remaining part of my nail entirely from the nail bed. It is hanging by a side thread. The bandaid that I have now plastered to my finger is making it entirely difficult to type this here information. I may have to stop. I don't think I can. Now the trouble with this all started back in my London travels. My best friend came to visit and literally something like the first or second day she came to visit we had already put a few drinks back and the next thing you know I want to kill her and another girl because they are singing chorale songs and we had things to do besides sing and I have this intense aversion to singing and whistling at times. I think my influence intensified this new found dislike and so I run to the back of the apartment, but I don't quite make it. I end up eating it instead and somehow my entire body weight landed upon my wittle tiny ring finger on my right hand.
That fall resulted in one of the most painful and longest aftermath consequential issues since I had to get stitches. When first examining the tip of my finger it look like I had fingertips that were made of strawberries. I had burst capillaries in my finger and so I had red blotches covering the tip of my finger. My nail looked as I described it in the first two weeks like Two-Face from Batman. It was a healthy and deep shade of bruised up black and blue, but I said Two-Face because it was only half my nail. As it healed and I thought I was out of the thick of it, my nail was referred to as the man with out a face. Two Face wasn't healed and looked more raw, which my nail did in the beginning but Mel Gibson with only half a good face healed and scarred over was what my nail soon began to resemble.
I had to take extra care as after some time I began to realize that the nail was not only discolored, but it was also dead, so half of my nail could be lifted from the nail bed, trapping things under there contributing to the overall grotesque nature of the damaged finger and there was always the fear of getting things caught under there. This fear was soon realized as one day at work I noticed a hair of unknown origin wedged under the flap of my dead nail and the healing nail bed. I was sure of an infection, but as it would be the lifting nail soon found itself ripping at the side and getting caught on things and ripping deeper into my healthy undead nail and nail bed. This was becoming quite painful and so one night, as it was disrupting my sleep, I simply clipped away as much of the dead nail without hurting the undead. This left me with an L shaped nail with an exposed bed as if I bit my fingernail for a living, the bad biting.
I have had a manicure with that L shaped nail and it looks disgusting to say the least and it is a bit embarrassing, but I was beginning to get over that have had three different nail colors to hide the rest of the dead nail and boost morale. Well today would be the day that as I am lifting a box and try to place it down that it so happens to catch and lift back the good part of my bad nail. What gives? Blood dripping everywhere and I still can't manage to get this typing thing down. It is taking me significantly longer and I keep trying to bypass that finger by using another one which messes me up because I can't find the home keys as easily since I am mixing them up. I need a caretaker, because clearly I am a walking disaster. So much for the morale boost.
So I managed to do a bit of work today aka help hang up a sign promoting HIV testing since the state is coming in today. I was raising my arms and I don't smell, but of course I haven't put any deodorant on today and so I have come to realize that the no deodorant thing is reaching a new high or low, however you want to look at it. I am beginning to question why people like me. I don't wear deodorant on a daily basis( I did put some on after the arm raise, feeling a bit insecure), I don't always shave my legs or my armpits especially if it is winter time ( I need all the extra warmth)-imagine what else can go untamed, I wash my face in the shower, but probably not how most people do. I think that boogers are gross, but aren't dirty and apparently I pick my nose on many occasions. I like to pop pimples, being barefoot is best, and sometimes I won't shower for a few days. Gross, gross, gross. But, people still like me and I don't know why.
I think it might be a good thing that I don't wear make-up since people like me now without it while knowing about all those gross things. Imagine if I was super pretty. I could do so many gross things and totally get away with it. Thinking about some of them just made me throw up a little in my mouth.
I swallowed it.
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