The Evil Butt-Crawling Hand Knows No Fear.
November 26th, 2001 by Kevin
I think I just posted on this thing seven or eight hours ago, but I am back. My life is just so damn interesting, I would hate to deprive anyone of hearing every little insignificant, mundane detail. Heh.I actually slept for about six hours. I think I would sleep longer, if not for the Evil Butt-Crawling Hand. The Evil Butt-Crawling Hand is attached to D.’s body, yet he refuses to take responsibility for it. It seems that every time I lie down, the Evil Butt-Crawling Hand automatically suctions itself onto my ass. When I’m trying to hang on to the precious few hours of sleep I am able to steal, neither I nor my butt appreciate the company. I have repeatedly spoken to D. in no uncertain terms about my stance on the Evil Butt-Crawling Hand, but he denies any involvement. I have expressed concern that while under the influence of sleeping aids, I might not be held legally responsible for my actions when said hand roves over my rear. I have also specified that if I am fully awake and insomnially irritated when the Evil Butt-Crawling Hand makes its nightly sojourn, I might be inclined to break it off.
D. doesn’t take me seriously. But I think he will when he discovers the Evil Butt-Kicking Foot.
I am not a close sleeper. I do not appreciate any effort to snuggle, cuddle, or otherwise invade my personal space in the middle of the night. I believe that we have a queen-sized bed for a reason. If I wanted another person that near me in the night, I would have bought a twin bed and saved a hundred bucks. There is nothing worse that waking up in a chokehold. It makes me want to burst screaming through the wall like Daffy Duck.
AAAAAA!!!!! Stop Touching Me!!!!!!
I guess that makes me mean, though, because D. moans in agony when I huddle up to the wall in search of non-120 degree bed space. The man radiates heat. It’s sick. I’m going to pack him ice one of these days. Sometimes I look back on my lonely single days, and I wonder how I could ever have been upset with ALL THAT SPACE. Sigh. I love him, but I’m not used to being sleep-fondled, and it drives me insane.
As much as Fuckles The Cat gets on my nerves, I have to admit, she’s excellent with J. They follow each other around all day, and she’s extremely tolerant, even though I’m sure she’d occasionally like to rip his face off. If someone was talking falsetto baby talk to me all day(”Aw…Kitty! Tomeere, Kitty!! Dasa GOOD wittle Kitty…”), I’d probably want to utilize my claws. J. speaks very well and very clearly, but for some reason gets very shmoopie-shmoopie with the cat. It’s hilarious. D. sometimes does the same thing. There is nothing more strange than watching the two of them hunched over a fat, irritated cat, murmuring, “Awwww…Kitty-Kitty. Ooo such a good wittle Kitty-Kitty! Is ooo a pretty Kitty-Witty??”.
The Kitty-Witty probably sits there thinking, “Christ, these people are whacked. Just feed me and shut the hell up.”
My neurologist is going to India for a month, so I am going to have a wonderful, blissful, doc-free December; assuming that I won’t require the services of the substitute doctor. Good news, good news.
I joined the Uncle Bob army. I get quite a kick out of Uncle Bob. His kid stories are priceless - nothing is sacred. I mean, nothing is sacred anyway once you’ve wiped somebody’s butt; but most parents don’t admit it, and try to act like everything child-related is a mystical, Zen-like experience. Not so. Sometimes, your kid walks in the room with thong panties on his head, your best 3-inch heels, and and eighteen strands of Mardi Gras beads, and you just have to wonder where the hell he came from.
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