Peter Cottontail: Day One Hundred Eighty-Five

1384119_85624779Can’t let the night get away with itself.  Have to take a moment and put a pin in things.

Here’s what I suppose will end up only being brief notes, not only because I’m distracted, with hair still wet from this morning’s bath which happened all of twelve hours ago, but because every now and then, that’s all the ammunition I have.

You got the bullets, I got the time.  You bring the bullets, I’ll bring the wine.

My mother apparently owns the most fetid, disgusting, noxious spray on the planet which I think is meant to scare away precious bunny rabbits.  They are, truth be told, completely obliterating our front lawn since the subdivision where they live is full of lush green grass and places that bunnies would like to go and eat.  It is sort of Club Med for baby bunnies.  I see them by the Easter basket-full.  With their sweet little cottontails and bright, tiny eyes, so small that you would like to cup them in your palms and sing little lullabies to them.   But, they are eating the grass right down to the dirt and it does make the yard look completely uncared for and for a woman, like my mother, who was born with a giant green thumb sticking out of both of her hands, this won’t do.  So she has a spray made of jaguar piss (this is what she told me – I am not going to do the google research to verify if such things are for sale in the general market or if she had to search the internet for some vials of the stuff), and it is the worst.  Emphatically, the. worst.

And she sprayed it all over the yard as I was leaving today with my giant Santa sack full of clean sheets and undergarments, and I will never forget the cooked diaper smell, the feast of durian fruit, the frying vomit stink that ushered me away.  Poor bunnies.   Their salad bar was just coated with jaguar wee – which has to be a bit of a confusing state of affairs when you’re just a single teacup full of baby bunny out on your own.  Hopefully, a rain will come and grow back the grass while the rabbits are enjoying the neighbor’s yard (who is a total dick and doesn’t deserve bunnies making camp on his flat, unremarkable square plot of astroturf he mows constantly – all while wearing a callous and sangfroid look on his face).

She did also allow me to eat a homemade burrito and some crispy kale and a homemade pudding-filled cream puff as well as wash my clothes, so I can’t complain overly about her gardening techniques.

There were no bullets, no gun, it’s all about the dual-wield today.  There’s only two days left of work this week, so basically, we can pretend tomorrow to be Thursday which immediately leavens the whole idea of dragging myself up and out into the world again tomorrow.

Guess I just have to hop to it?

:::in the distance, a  fictional, but no less audible starting pistol goes off:::

Brosser Les Dents: Day Thirty-Nine

I found the image first, so I am afraid that I am going to attempt to match its tone (not that I have ever hoped or required that of the myself and the header image) but today has been so less than bubbly rainbows, that I don’t want to lose the verisimilitude.

But you might wish I’d lose it.

Last night is where the story of today’s sourness actually began when I tried to go to bed around 1:00a.m.-ish.  This is not atypical on a Friday night.  However, as I tried to relax and breathe and do whatever dope-on-a-rope trick I have to finagle to get my overactive mind to go into hibernation mode, I realized I felt a bit off.  I ignored it, as you do, because it’s late and the offness wasn’t centered anywhere or to do with anything.  Again, not so very atypical.  I feel I’m already adding too much tension to what is only a scatologically-focused bit of puff.  I woke up with a start and felt it must be morning with the quite classic, but very atypical for me, worrying feeling in my colon.  Quite worrying.  So off I went to deal with the…ahem…matter and put myself back in bed as a good girl should.  I woke up again.  It was only 2:30a.m., but equally indisposed.  And again at 4:00a.m.   I popped an antacid in sheer desperation.  And then 8:30a.m. when I finally said I’d rather not play the old game again and made myself get up for the day.  Now, I’m not sure if it’s my beloved shakes, or what, because I had one for breakfast and felt not great so I decided to just not eat ever again.  And in the interim thought about cleaning or moving about, though didn’t, really.  Mostly just played more Bioshock Infinite, thinking I could follow the walkthrough and breeze through it, but it’s certainly taken it’s fair share of time today.  And somewhere in the midst of all that, I got some appetite back and thought I’d do a proper low-carb frittata and bake it in the oven with sausage and cheese, and I baked it and it was good, until around 2:00p.m. my poor little stomach started the gurgles once again and away we went.  And at 7:00p.m, and now 10:30 or so, after a strong dose of Pepto, it continues, though I suppose, I would call it abated.

Insofar as I call preponderance of shit anything at all.

So I hope to feel better tomorrow, to be more active and organized and answer the schlub who deigned to message me on OKC with nothing really to recommend himself (I’m equally mediocre and disinterested, so this should be smashing.) as well as the girl who wants to order me about with the writing group.

I really want to not be laid up again and waste another beautiful day waiting for something to get better.

I suppose I should apologize for this post, but there will be another one tomorrow, like it or no.