Just when things were getting boring.
I've been gone because we've spent the last two weeks in Arizona, for Thanksgiving. It was a deliciously uneventful time, and even the drive home was mostly relaxing. I spent a good deal of it composing new, hilarious blogs for you to read. Here's the first:
I'm driving through Texas (flat) after sunset (dark) and listening to Sigur Rós's geniuswork Takk. Every time I see the name 'Sigur Rós' I cannot help but think of 'Suge Knight'--I realise this is a pretty screwed up association, but there's no stopping it. It makes me wish I had sweet deejaying skills, you know? I'd mix clips of Takk with clips of all the people Knight has been accused of killing, a la Danger Mouse, and make myself Internetally famous. I'd call the album 'Gatt'. And then I'd be shot.
The second was a hilarious rant about the disproportionately high roadkill statistics in Texas versus those of other states. I'd have produced witty images and clever remarks about how Texans barbeque so much in order to mask the odor of dead animals cooking under solar unfluence on an asphalt griddle.
Instead, about an hour before we got home, our landlady called my husband. Our duplex had caught fire. Right now, we're staying in a hotel courtesy of The Red Cross and our animals are stuck at the (burnt out) house because the hotel wouldn't let us bring them here. Long story short, we have to move again.
Here's the tally so far for 2006:
1 fried television set
1 pair of broken glasses
1 cancer scare
1 poetry rejection
2 counseling sessions
lots of dirty panties
lots of dog piddles
3 moves, 1 pending
3 car accidents, 1 totalled vehicle
2 friendships lost (a lesson in not living with your financially burdened friends)
1 house burnt down
I cry Uncle. Mercy. You win, 2006. All I ask is that you give me a rest for the next 27 days and then go quietly into the past. Don't say terrible things to 2007 about me, please, because I'm really hoping the two of us will get along just fine.
The moral of the story: Please don't give your seven year old a lighter.
I'm driving through Texas (flat) after sunset (dark) and listening to Sigur Rós's geniuswork Takk. Every time I see the name 'Sigur Rós' I cannot help but think of 'Suge Knight'--I realise this is a pretty screwed up association, but there's no stopping it. It makes me wish I had sweet deejaying skills, you know? I'd mix clips of Takk with clips of all the people Knight has been accused of killing, a la Danger Mouse, and make myself Internetally famous. I'd call the album 'Gatt'. And then I'd be shot.
The second was a hilarious rant about the disproportionately high roadkill statistics in Texas versus those of other states. I'd have produced witty images and clever remarks about how Texans barbeque so much in order to mask the odor of dead animals cooking under solar unfluence on an asphalt griddle.
Instead, about an hour before we got home, our landlady called my husband. Our duplex had caught fire. Right now, we're staying in a hotel courtesy of The Red Cross and our animals are stuck at the (burnt out) house because the hotel wouldn't let us bring them here. Long story short, we have to move again.
Here's the tally so far for 2006:
1 fried television set
1 pair of broken glasses
1 cancer scare
1 poetry rejection
2 counseling sessions
lots of dirty panties
lots of dog piddles
3 moves, 1 pending
3 car accidents, 1 totalled vehicle
2 friendships lost (a lesson in not living with your financially burdened friends)
1 house burnt down
I cry Uncle. Mercy. You win, 2006. All I ask is that you give me a rest for the next 27 days and then go quietly into the past. Don't say terrible things to 2007 about me, please, because I'm really hoping the two of us will get along just fine.
The moral of the story: Please don't give your seven year old a lighter.
posted by weaktoast at 10:52 AM
1 Comments:
i just saw this news on your dA journal. i am waaaay behind on my internetting, and, well, everything. but holy crap! if there's anything i can do, let me know. did neva lose any precious toys? how is she holding up?
good grief. kids + fire = MORONS. see, you're not as bad a mom as you thought. :)
not that you ever were a bad mom, you loller.
we need to talk soon. a poetry rejection means you actually submitted something. i need to do that. i love you.
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