I have an urge to run and hide this morning. I have lovely coffee-spill decoration drops down the front of my shirt. It might have been better if I'd kept to my old bad habits of wearing a lab gown everywhere, but no, I try to stay gown free on the eating and the drinking. I try to stay gown-free most of the night anyway, because the petticoats just get in the way and pants are just so practical.
I blame the shirt. It's one that has mysterious stains. (Food-related mysterious stains, not- oh never mind). I wash and scrub, until my washing machine starts chugging, iron the shirt and fail to notice the mark right between the boobies. I'm hardly likely to scrub until my fingers bleed, I don't have a washboard and I'm too big a girl for that sort of thing.
Despite appearances to the contrary, I haven't been at the alcohol swabs, unless someone wants to make me an offer.
Yesterday morning (which is still this morning to me, welcome to the disorientation of twelve-hour night shifts) I took forty minutes longer to get home than I should have. Because to wanted to...SING! So I did. Forty minutes of singing at the top of my lungs, with a wind down listening to Vivaldi. Great way to relax. Tell your friends.
Unfortunately tonight/{this} morning my voice is heading towards crackville (not Crackville, in California; only drug addicts go there). I may have the small lad's lurgy, but before the hypochondria sets in, I'll assume it's overdoing the singing.
I have the attention span of an ADD squirrel. Or a dog distracted by a squirrel while trying to get it to fetch the stick, boy, go on! It's a problem and not one to explore at four in the morning, unless I really have been at the alcohol swabs (or much more likely alcoholic facsimile from a pretty glass bottle in a special shot glass); small bananas compared to solving all of the world's problems (this should only ever be undertaken while mellow and under the influence). Two o'clock is the best time really, particularly if beer has been consumed, but let's make do.
Or we could all be kind to each other, all the time, or most thereof, but apparently not.
Oh, terrific mood, thy name is me. I had a phone call earlier, the kind where I hung up the phone and said, "And when you've finished being unpleasant, perhaps we could get on with it." Because everyone else "just does it" (no they don't), and I wouldn't. Blood Bank! Mad with power! Arbitrary rules just to shit you! Yes, you in particular! Patient safety doesn't enter into it!
So much for leaving work at work. No, wait, I am at work, so that's all right.
SQUIRREL!
As much as I like the movie Up!, the dead squirrel joke isn't much chop for very literal little people (like alliteration? Me too!). "It is funny because the squirrel is dead." and it is, for the grownups; mystifying for littlies.
For anyone who hasn't seen the movie, skip the squirrel, dog and random exclamations. If you want.
If you don't, go watch it. It's a great movie though strangley not as beautiful as Wall-E. Back to Up!, the only part that puzzles me is the bad guy. In the commentary it was said that the writers tried not to make the bad guy intrinsically evil. The odd part is the bad guy takes the prize in the Pixar universe for "Most Evil (and Believable) Villain". He's adult, ugly and twisted, and creation of talking dogs (!!!) notwithstanding, one of the most reprehensible characters in a kid's movie.
The other bone I have to pick with Up!, and since I've started I may as well, is the talking dogs. Talking dogs! Really! I want one! I want all of the dogs I have ever owned to be talking dogs! Every dog person who saw the movie (especially the lines "Can we keep him?" "No." "But he's a TALKING DOG!!" and the very well-animated Kevin's body language on the "TALKING DOG!!") wants one! Sometimes when I'm not thinking about anything, I think about how much I want a talking dog! Ever since watching this movie! Do something about that, would you?
I wish I were a rich man, ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum, all day long I'd sit on my bum, if I were a wealthy man.
Then again, I'm not sure I want to commit to the sex change.
Today is my birthday. Thank you for all the good wishes. I have no plans to do anything. Other than the ironing, I'm catching up. Finally I have myself slightly organised, while outside my windows zombies smear icky things and mumble about brains. They don't want mine, apparently it induces fits. I'll be safe come the end of the world then.
I meant to be serious there, not quite sure what happened. Just think, you too could be this mental...just...errr...maybe not. I was going to blame something, but it's much more fun to assume I'm a nutbag. Better than being a peanut (as in size of brain equals, for those who don't geddit, geddit?).
Lawnmowers: one. Frogs: a blood-smeared and speckled zero.
