*Runs out into the sunlight*
*Loads the carbon fiber Benelli shotgun*
*Shoots fiery blazing ball of evil in the sky*
*Runs back in the basement, locks door, closes blinds*

*Panting wildly at all that exertion*
*makes note to do more cardio*

*Feels around in the dark for vacuum hose to fend off Monster Dust Bunny that’s come to kill us all*

*Holds breath, turns on vacuum, sucks that fucker up*

*Flops down on the floor, waiting for another axe to fall*

It doesn’t come.
Nothing.
Just silence.

And then a realization.

Someone hit the mute button, put in earplugs and is wearing TWO eye patches.
See nothing, say nothing, hear nothing.

After I was probed by aliens in the first week of May leaving me with  *FrankenBoob © , all I could muster was that lame ass post about how the Internet, God Bless it’s tiny little heart of stone, was trying to coerce me into becoming a vampire slut hooker.
And that’s when I locked my self in the basement in a time of nothingness.
Grey.
Rain.
Rain.
Grey Rain.
And went insane.
Slowly.
And surely.

Lost all of my marbles…Once a-fucking-gain but only for a moment.
Because I had sights to see.
Horses to lose my shirt on.
Plagues to contract.
Days that needed me to do nothing but roll around on the couch in a foggy agony of cold meds that do nothing but make me slightly more stupid.
And then another realization that my floor was/is getting furry/furrier by the minute and soon, like that liquid metal guy from that terminator movie the fur will, with out a shadow of a doubt, turn into another Monster Dust Bunny.
Right now as I type this I can see out of my tiny little hole I made in one eye patch, the fur? Is gathering strength. It is rolling across the floor carried on the balmy waves of air wafting through, around, over and under me, the couch the table and chairs. Scooping up the bloody carcasses of the Malignant Mosquito’s From Outer Space that I shot with the Sig 9 mm, with my very own hands, right out of the Mother Fucking Air!
These fur balls are going to be one bad ass MOFO to contend with.
Just as soon as I get me (or my) shit together.
Just as soon as I take a nap.

Just as soon as I figure out what the hell that  Fiery Blazing Ball of What Can Only Be Pure Evil is, in the sky.
Making my eyeballs burn if I take off the pirate patches.
Making my skin turn pink if I stand out in it longer than the time it takes to load the shot gun.
Making my toes thaw out from the blocks of ice, that I have grown so fond of.
This  fiery blazing ball of evil in the sky has made these blocks of ice melt away like the Wicked Witch of The East.
Or something.

And now…

In the quiet I can smell the farenheit. I can hear the mercury rise

It is now The Hot Season.

And I am in Hell.

Exactly where I love to be.

(pretty sure I have all of my fingers and thumbs and hands. Yet I find this picture of my left hand to be totally creepy.)

It’s hot.

AND…

So. Am. I.
(**)

P.S. *More on the FrankenBoob © later. But lets just say everything is fine and  nothing is wrong.

P.P.S. ** I realize that saying  ”So. Am. I.”, in reference to the hot temps,  might make me sound like I am tooting my own horn, but really I have been sweating my balls off today (much to The Dishes approval) which is something I haven’t done since August  2010.

Somewhere around the ninth grade after a terrible bout of mononucleosis where they thought I might actually have leukemia but was really just the “kissing” disease (which was comical in and of itself because I don’t think I had ever even kissed anyone but my parents up until then and maybe that one strange uncle that made everyone uncomfortable when he was around) 
I found my self on a bus full of evil 14 year old monsters who I was terribly afraid of being around because they were either bullies or THE BOY who had rebuffed my subtle 14 year old advances and by subtle I am referring to the time prior to this that I asked a friend to tell him I liked him to which he responded that I was too short.
So naturally the next day I went to school in a pair of wooden heeled platform candies and extremely tight very sheer cotton lavender Sergio Valente jeans.
You know the shoe’s right?

I’m thinking my parents had no idea that I left the house in a pair of shoes that have been sexy since 1980. Or that my pants were that tight. Or that the reason I put these things on was in a valiant effort to lower my self esteem another notch to gain THE BOY’S attention only to be completely ignored.
Not even the cover girl ocean blue eyeliner I smuggled out of the house and put on in the girls room would make him look my way.

Back on the bus on a field trip to somewhere as horrifying, no doubt, as the bus ride itself, a rousing  game of truth or dare broke out and that’s when I sunk down as low as possible  in my seat so as not to be noticed. Come to think of it I may have tried to sit under the seat. I certainly was SHORT enough to do that.  I am convinced when you are trying not to be noticed it’s like all the lights get turned down and the spotlight comes on and finds you underneath a bus seat and people are daring THE BOY to french kiss you which was making me want to throw up because, like I said, the only thing I had kissed was my parents, and maybe Davey Jones on the TV screen while watching  The Monkees.

Oh and that poster of Erik Estrada.

Yes.

I kissed a poster of Erik Estrada.

More than once.

Shut up.

 He’s still got it.

Fourteen year olds are horrible  relentless things I must say because, soon I found my self with my lips pursed, my tongue ever so slightly sticking out of my mouth with THE BOY ferociously licking my entire face so much that I think he was trying to lick my skin off.

French Kissing was definitely not for me.
Ever again.
Even more so because he then told everyone that when we kissed, I spit in his mouth.

*Blink*
*Blink*
*Blink*

Uh, how is that even possible?

Apparently he eventually decided that he really enjoyed short girls who spit in his mouth.
(Kinky at 17 who knew anything like that even existed.)
Because years and years later, three to be exact, I actually started “going out” with THE BOY.
Which consisted of driving to parks and sitting on picnic benches while he desperately tried to lick the skin off  of my face all the time.

 I guess my spitting llama technique  must have haunted him in his dreams for all those years.

He was very passionate and I was very, um how do you say it…completely nonsexual.

Also extremely fond of the skin on my face so I ended up “breaking up’ with him.

At the time I was working a very high profile job in the fashion industry where I spent my days avoiding dusting shelves and folding sweaters in a mall store called Chaps.

CHAPS???

What the hell was going on in the 80′s, it was all like sex and drugs or something and I was like a 17 year old little girl who played with tiny fake mice (because I hated dolls)  who lived in a giant unfinished doll house all day long alone in  my bedroom. 

I was a late bloomer.

Well THE BOY would stand vigil directly outside of Chaps staring at my every move. Every shift. Every damn day until I had avoided doing so much fashion work that I got fired.

And I am pretty sure that was the end of him.

Or that I completely made this all up because I’ve scoured three years of high school year books and I find no evidence that he even existed.

Or maybe I just can’t remember his name.