It all started when I asked for a sign.
*I'd like to say it started when the Cowboys lost, but that's not likely considering pathetic play, stupid penalties, and evaporating-should-have-been-wins are becoming a weekly occurrence. Unfortunately, I can't blame everything on them...or can I? Hmm*
I have no idea what possessed me to ask for a stupid sign--suppose I was looking for a little direction, maybe even a cosmic pat on the back. Boy, did I get it--a great big slap-you-in-the-face-spit-on-your-feet-knock-you-on-your-a** pat on the back.
At about 12 a.m., I foolishly asked for a sign.
At 1 a.m., I get a splitting headache. I blamed the Cowboys' loss.
At. 2:15 a.m., after drinking far too much soda (helps the headaches), I finally kicked the nasty headache and tried to go to sleep.
At exactly 3:58 a.m., the gallon of soda I stupidly downed kicked in.
At 4:00 a.m., my usually reliable toilet made a very un-toilet-like sound. It sounded like a cross between a Shrek burp and a Fiona fart. I turned, bleary eyed, to see water flowing out from under the lid and all over the floor, my feet, the throw rug....everything. Horrified, I tried to lift the ball-thing in back part of the potty (no clue about proper potty lingo, apart from calling it a sh*!ster). Nothing doing. The damn thing was stuck. Somehow, after tucking my hand under the "thing," I was able to get it stopped. Terrible Toilet finally cleared itself without the assistance of a plunger. "Oh, now you clear yourself," I grumbled, looking around at the mess.
At 4:15 a.m., I began mopping up my bathroom. But I couldn't stop there...I grabbed the disinfectant and got to work. I have great respect for Snow White and her whole whistle-while-you-work thing. Me? I gag while I work. Mop. Mop. Gag. Mop. Mop. Gag. (picture the White Queen in Alice In Wonderland and her slight gag reflex...yeah, similar to that).
4:40 a.m.: My bathroom is clean and squeaky...me feet, however, are not. GAG. Thoroughly repulsed, I grabbed a towel, wash cloth, and my hair clip, intending to take a shower...I absolutely had to get the toilet water remnants off of my feet. GAG.
4:50 a.m.: Just before slipping into the shower, I flipped on my bathroom radio--I find music takes the edge off...unless, of course, fate decides to shove it up your a** sideways. The song? "...I saw the sign, and it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign..." I stood there, a little chilled, completely naked, and thought, "So, that's my sign? I'm destined to get sh!* on for eternity. Fabulous. Great. Really super."
5:15 a.m.: I head downstairs to grab a glass of milk, settle into my comfy recliner, and watch a little television, all in an effort to calm down. I flip on ESPN. Cowboys' highlights. Sigh. Flip to Cinemax On Demand. SNAP! The cable box blows out. Wonderful.
Luna Lovegood would smile, take the lemons life throws at her, make some brilliant lemonade-flavored happiness potion, and move on to the next, no worries.
I prefer to take the lemons, chuck them back as hard as I can, and hope it hits him, her, or it right where it hurts.
To add insult to injury, I've been fighting a semi-mild case of food poisoning/bad reaction since about 4 p.m. today.
Guess I got my sign. See if I EVER ask for one again. Fate. I have thoughts. Many thoughts. Can you guess the choice two-word phrase that has been running through my mind all day? Yeah. About sums up my thoughts on fate at the moment.