Until this month, this has been a somewhat unremarkable year. Usually I get a little nervous if the end of the year approaches and I don't feel like I have made the necessary improvements in my life. Since I am a very fulfilled person, this gets more difficult every year.
Due to the alignment of planets or some other universal force, everything that would normally be spread out over a twelve month period has pretty much come down on me in two weeks.
I decided to put my house on the market. I figured, "What the hey? Everybody knows The Skirt and I are total sinners, and we both hate commuting to each others' houses, so how 'bout we pool our resources and buy ourselves a homestead?" She agreed, and now it's a flurry of loan agreements, legal documents, pre-approvals, appraisals, and so on. You may ask "Why don't you make an honest woman out of her?" And I will answer in one of two ways, depending on my mood - "She's already honest." Or "Mind your own goddamn business."
We started looking for houses, which is fun and not fun at the same time. One person says, "You need to move to this transitional neighborhood because it is really a great investment" and I have to answer "So as I bleed to death after having been robbed, stabbed, and raped in my own driveway, at least I can take solace in the ever increasing market value of my house." No thanks. I'll take my chances in an established neighborhood. Another says "Hey, you should move to Alpharetta (because misery loves company). The Traffic in Atlanta is so bad; I don't see how you can live down there." I typically respond with a quick lesson in logic. "We all agree that we'd rather be fisted by a pirate than spend time in Atlanta's famed traffic, correct? And you live just north of Canada, correct? I live four miles from where I work. So your daily commute is 600 miles, and mine is 8, and you somehow spend less time in traffic than I do? Lying makes the baby Jesus gassy." Fortunately, The Skirt and I are on the same page as far as where we are going to live. Neither of us wants to get murdered or spend much time driving.
Then like a flaming turd from the heavens, I finally got a job offer I liked. I've been at the same job for six years, and I am ready to get yelled at by new people. Luckily, these new people also happen to occupy a building that is way closer to my house and are also willing to give me more money. Changing jobs is a touchy business. For the most part you have to be careful who you talk to and what you say, as the professional community is a close-knit group of folks. There is also the whole "burning bridges" thing to avoid if at all possible. So for two or three weeks of negotiations and paperwork and stuff, everything is scary, secretive, and stressful. That has been mostly handled, and I start my new gig after Thanksgiving. Go me.
As I was sitting in that famous Atlanta traffic on my way home, pondering all of these things and planning my next move, I heard some screeching and looked up to see a guy in a jeep headed right toward the back end of my car. His car was twisted at an angle that can only be achieved through simultaneous braking and steering, his entire body attempting to help slow the car by pulling mightily on his steering wheel...and he smacked into the new Honda. Yes, the car I bought three months ago. The impact knocked my sunglasses off and made some papers cascade comically from the visor into my lap, but I couldn't even enjoy the moment, for I had to use that precious second to avoid hitting the car in front of me and incurring responsibility and expense. So I guess that makes number 4 a big fun insurance claim and leaving the car at the shop for a while.
I arrived home with a stress headache and a bit of a self-pity thing going on, only to find a roach drowning in my toilet. This struck me as very "Things could be much worse, mister asshole with a new job and a new car and a girlfriend who you are pretty sure loves you and a new house." Seriously - as if being a two inch long roach isn't bad enough, he goes for a drink and ends up floating in toilet water for an entire day. Oh, he wasn't dead - roaches aren't dead until they are a pile of paste and exoskeleton. I have seen a roach lying motionless on its back for a week (I didn't clean up much in college), and when I went to grab it with a paper towel, it began to scurry, leading to a very unpleasant death for both the roach and an unfortunate roommate who was in the path of the mini-fridge I threw at it.
So I'm looking at this vile creature bobbing on the surface, wondering when he gave up swimming for the edge and just decided to float for a while. He looked dead, but I'm not stupid, plus I had no plans to save his gross ass anyway, so I peed on him. I tried to fathom how sucky it must be to be a roach - not only did I not feel sorry for what is by all accounts one of God's creatures, I actually made a game out of keeping him submerged for as long as possible with a steady stream of urine. I had a brief moment of terror as I imagined him evolving crazy leg-flippers that allowed him to scamper upstream and burrow into my pee hole, eventually laying eggs in my spine.
I have flushed lots of insects down the toilet, and almost without exception I root for them for a fleeting moment before they go down. This was definitely an exception. He valiantly grabbed onto the side of the bowl and I thought he was going to get out, pin me to the ground and pee on me, so I grabbed the toilet brush and prepared for battle. I deftly jabbed at him and mistakenly assumed that he had been sucked down. Then a movement caught my eye. The little bastard had grabbed the toilet brush, now held above the toilet, and was bent on destroying me.
I slammed the brush against the rim of the toilet so hard I thought the porcelain would crack, and the flex of the brush handle sent the cockroach zinging upward (yes, upward) and he missed my face by a few inches.
This part is a blur, but try to stay with me here - as I recoiled, the piss-soaked diseasebag was arcing through the air, so I spun on one foot and used the brush as some sort of faggy flailing implement. Missing said roach entirely I cleared everything off of the glass shelf behind the toilet and sent it all hurtling into the bathtub. Okay, The Skirt's toothbrush landed in the toilet, but don't say anything because you know how girls freak out about that shit.
I jumped into the tub and began stomping on anything that looked like a cockroach. The Skirt lost a small tube of brownish goop and a hair clip (their fault for looking like roaches and being profiled), and I am happy to report that the cockroach was reduced to a glob of grayish stuff with a leg sticking out.
I guess even the little things that make you think (for me it is peeing on bugs, for you probably something more normal) should be considered with caution, as a simple moment of reflection can get violently out of control in seconds. At least it can if you are me.
 Dusty
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12 Comments:
Cecilia
dunderfunk.
For the next time you encounter one of these buggers again :)
My sympathies to the skirt on the death of her hair clip. Seriously. It's so hard to find exactly the right one...
Sorry, couldn't resist.
Best of luck. Transitions aren't always fun, but they're at least something to occupy yourself with. Be thankful.
Congrats on the new job and moving in with the skirt.
May you be as happy as your writing makes me.
Don't pee on things! That is so, so gross. Especially things with senses and perception skills.
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