Why yes, some of you might leap to the conclusion that I'm referring to my heart, and that this is about to be another sad contemplative entry about loving things I can't have. Well, you folks would be wrong. This entry is about the other thing I talk about here on the Plague.
This morning I woke up feeling groggy and a tad under the weather. As a result I paid very little attention to the clothes I pulled on as I got dressed. I picked up my new purple shirt off the clean laundry pile on the floor and put it on (the laundry pipeline inverted itself this month - leaving piles of clean unfolded laundry on the floor such that I could continue to load my hamper with the dirties). I then proceeded to the bathroom and began to brush my teeth. There I noticed a familiar terrible smell. It rated 20 Hobos on the Hobo Power Scale of Bad Smells. I kept catching whiffs of it here and there, but I just could not locate the smell. Concerned that I was somehow afflicted with the worst case of morning breath ever, I brushed furiously until my gums bled. The smell somehow remained.
I lifted the shower curtains and shook out the bathmat in search of the elusive source, but my efforts yielded nothing. As I left the bathroom I sniffled and reflexively lifted my wrist to my nose, only to realize that the smell was emanating from my right arm. It was my shirt. And it had seeped into the skin on my wrist.
I returned to my bedroom and examined the spot from which I had lifted the shirt and, unsurprised, found the sizeable nugget of cat turd upon which my purple shirt had been resting for who-knows-how-long. My wrist hasn't felt clean since this discovery, despite vigorous scrubbing with antibacterial soap.
And that was what happened to me before I'd even put my contact lenses in today. How was *your* Friday morning?
Further bulletins as events warrant.
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1 comment:
Oh, Buttberry.
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