Bugs are disgusting.

Well, I did have a not-too-bad weekend.  On Saturday I left Eviljob early, and I saw Mehitabel sunning herself in the grass, so I fed her where she was and I also put down a HUGE pile at the feeding station since I was not going to be able to make it out there on Sunday.  Mehitabel almost sort-of let me come close to her (about three feet, though of course I didn’t have my net in hand), so I am hoping that maybe with a few weeks off from feeling as if she’s being pursued, she’ll maybe change her mind back about me.  I guess we’ll see.  It has been raining here pretty continuously and I have crap to get completed this week, but weather permitting on Sunday, I will try (again) to grab her if I can get help.  Grr.


Butsoanyway.

Yesterday I went with Meg to a quasi-local casino and we played there until late.  It took a while for me to get in The Zone, as it were, so I went way down and managed to end up just slightly ahead before it was time to leave.  Oh, well.  Meg asked me to come to lunch with her and her friend (and ex-roommate) who is an attorney today which was nice and cool and everything; the only drawback is her friend has the weirdest stare ever.  Or I shouldn’t say stare when I really mean gaze, but whatever—it’s unnerving, in a creepy little ‘I am analysing EVERYTHING you say’ kind of way.  I’ll be in the middle of trying to relate a story and forget what my point was, so just to piss him off, I’ll start talking about something else with no segue whatsoever.  

Well, it’s funny to me.  

On Thursday, Meg is going to go get a massage at this place she goes to; I am not sure if the place exactly counts as a day spa or not since they do mostly massage stuff there, but she gave me a gift certificate to the place for Christmas, and I have been begging off on using it for, at this point, six months.  Augh.  I am going to have to start coming up with better excuses; this time I claimed that I have to work, which is true, but…it’s getting boring.  Next time I think that I will claim to have jungle rot.  But I did say that I would go with her when she gets her highlights done on Friday for a pedicure and facial.  Woo-hoo.

Kal-El, despite his promises, did completely and resoundingly fail to show up over the weekend; this does not bode well for his ass, despite how well he is doing on my neighbours’ place.  And no, I didn’t bother to phone him to find out why.  His ‘regular’ day (in quotes, ‘cos it actually hasn’t happened yet) is Wednesday, so I’ll pester him then if nothing has happened; I know he is still catching up from Memorial Day – or at least he was last Friday.  Who knows.  Or cares.  Definitely not me at this point.  One might get a rise out of fricking Marshall, Will, and Holly, who have set up base camp in my front little courtyard area, but other than that I don’t believe anyone cares any more.  

Other than Babsnextdoorontheotherside.  Babsnextdoorontheotherside offered me her mower (but not her husband, note!), if it could get running, but I declined; her mower’s a push-y type, it’s 63,000 years old (they have a lawn service as well; her husband has heart problems and used to like to do the yard, but was told by his physician not to over SIX YEARS AGO, which is when the mower was last started.  But he *refuses* to let Babsnextdoorontheotherside throw it away, or donate it, or anything; same with all his tools, she complained.  And I’m being completely facetious about borrowing her husband, by the way).  I declined; sweet of her, but no.  First off, the thing probably wouldn’t even start, and if it did, what then?  It would probably blow up, or I would get my heels stuck in the lawn and they’d have to hear my screams over the mower and call 911.  And if they didn’t hear, I might sit back there for days, stuck in my back yard, until I was eaten by a T-Rex, or something; I’d be trapped for weeks back there with only a push-y type lawn mower to defend myself against giant ants, tarantulas, and the like, ‘cos I sure as hell wouldn’t take my shoes off—I might get jungle rot.  Plus, it’s rainy.  Plus I don’t fricking want to.  Babs suggested I could wear sneakers, but I just gestured that I could not hear her over the pterodactyl screeches and Sleestak growls coming from my yard, pointed at my watch, and went back home.  Whatever.  

I didn’t mention the not wanting to part.  I know I should want to.  I should, if I were any decent sort of human being, want to go out there and mow, garden, and commune with nature.  But I just don’t.  Particularly not the icky kind of nature.  You know—the kind that is crawly, slimy, or multi-legged and furry?  Bleah.  

I mean, take butterflies for example; they’re really pretty in an abstract sense.  One sees a butterfly and thinks, ‘Oooh!  A BUTTERFLY!’  Then it goes and lands on you and it’s suddenly apparent that they are crawly, insect-looking things that crawl with legs, have segmented bodies, antennae and stuff, and you’re all of a sudden doing the GetoffmeGetoffmeGetoffme! Dance, and running to find a baseball bat to kill it with.  I love Nature.  From a distance.  And when it is *controlled*--like being mown and free of bugs, and ideally air-conditioned.  I am a Controlled Nature Lover.  

And this is why I would make a bad serial killer.  

No, really—I would.  And it’s not as it might seem; if I can take a baseball bat and pound dents into my home or car trying to kill an icky-up-close butterfly, wasp, roach, or whatever (I know; I have to work on my aim, and I intend to.  Someday.), the actual taking of life isn’t that big a deal.  I’m all about the relative mores and so on.  Mostly.  What I haven’t the stomach for is dump sites.  Oh, god, how gross, and I’m not talking about the bodies—that just makes them all the worse; they were gross before anyone ever got there, though.  They’re always in the woods, and there are fricking bugs there, and bugs, and more bugs, and did I mention BUGS, and things that are too gross to detail, the *least* of which would be that bludgeoned body that you’re dropping off.  With my luck, I’d find some place, get my grave all arranged and dug out (yet another drawback; one has to dig it oneself), drop the body in, cover, cover, cover and done, turn around to leave, and WHAP!  Right into a giant spider web.  One with a giant spider in it—you know, those BIG spiders in the forest?  Yeah; one of them.  

BWAAH!

They’d find me bruised and lacerated from head to toe, having beaten myself to death with the shovel I was carrying, trying to get the spider off.  I kid you not.  Blecch.  

And this is why people who are serial killers, as well as people who camp, are just damned weird.  Who in their right mind wants to go out and have bugs crawl all over them?  No one normal, that’s for sure.  

The group that is really to blame for all of this is the Boy Scouts, though.  

No, really.  Much of what is wrong in the world in this respect is due to the Boy Scouts.  I mean, look:  First off, a lot of serial killers have been Boy Scouts.  Secondly, they encourage camping, thus desensitising America’s youth to bugs, and encouraging them to develop skills that behove a serial killer.  There may even be a secret Dump Site-Finding badge that we don’t know about.  They’re weird, and tight as Freemasons, I tell you.  Plus, some of the very most freakiest people I have known were Eagle Scouts.  Not that freaky people are serial killers by default; I mean I am freaky and I just covered why I wouldn’t make a good serial killer, but regardless—there’s a BSA tie-in there.  Like literally.  Maybe it has to do with all the rope-tying stuff they do.  Who knows.  

On the other hand, probably there isn’t really a secret Dump Site-Finding merit badge.  If there were, I am sure that I would have seen someone wearing it by now on a gothemopunk jacket, or bag, or something, thinking that it’s cool—kind of like one still sees some shit heads wearing Nazi swastikas and such.  

Hmmm…see?  This is what analysis is all about; I’ve just QED’d nixing a whole conspiracy.  I feel much better.  Kinda.  

Though I still think that most Boy Scouts are probably freaky on a completely unfounded, speculative basis.  I’m hard to dissuade like that.  

…what was I talking about?


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