Monday Mourning, vol. 2

I don’t have a story to tell today, or a point to make. But I know I need to write something–anything–just to keep my momentum going. So that’s what Monday Mournings are going to be. (Monday Mourning. Heh. Get it? Because it’s Monday, and Mondays suck. No? Whatever. YOU SUCK.)

I got a lot of responses about the evil, evil redheaded children I wrote about yesterday. Even with all that encouragement, I’m still too chicken to confront their parents about it. Seriously. My words did not do the dad justice. He is a force to be reckoned with, just not by me.

So think about Lou Ferrigno during his golden years as the Hulk. Then picture Jeff Foxworthy. Now imagine what the product of a tequila fueled one night stand between the two of them would yield. My neighbor the tow truck driver is the love child of an unholy Ferrigno/Foxworthy union, only with red hair and access to tools capable of chopping cars in half.

Now that’s an equation of love that you just don’t want to compute.

Seriously, this guy is scary. Red just scoffed at me when I told him about the whole ordeal. If he had been home, (he said) he would have just called the cops and washed his hands of the entire problem. (Yeah, right. He probably would have stolen their soccer ball, punctured it with a fillet knife, and buried in the backyard while the children looked on.)  I think he forgets that we have to live near these people for the foreseeable future. I don’t want to constantly be on the look out for whatever kind of revenge they would dish out, since Ferrigno/Foxworthy seems to be somewhat creative.

So I’m going to do the chicken-y thing, which is NOTHING. I’m going to wait until our landlord comes to collect the rent, then I’ll tell her that there’s a distinct possibility a few evil redheaded children will get duck taped to the side of their house some afternoon if things don’t calm the fuck down. Then it will be her problem, mwahahaha!

Today felt like Fall for the first time this season. Usually, the temperature here falls off into a comfortable mid-seventies range right after my birthday, but this year, it has been hotter than six shades of hell since early May. It was a welcome change, to say the least.

I thought the cooler weather would help restore some of the brains that seem to leak out the sororistutes’ heads during the heat of high summer, but nope, I was wrong. Every where I looked, there were girls in shorts so short I could count their individual short and curlies if I so desired.

I get it, ladies. You are throwing your cooter at your English prof in hopes of getting an A in your (ridiculously simple) Freshman Comp class without ever writing a single word, but COME ON. I don’t care how thin you are, or how many times you had to stick your finger down your throat to get that way, NO ONE WANTS TO SEE YOUR VAGINA. Seriously. Even Georgia O’Keefe couldn’t make the equipment we of the fairer sex are burdened with look good. It’s not a delicate flower–it’s more like a box of cow tongues, and that’s not attractive on anyone. Especially when it’s hanging out of your Juicy Couture underwear hot pants shorts.

And finally, I forgot to rinse the fucking shampoo out of my hair this morning. Because while I was bathing, I was preoccupied with the thought that I had nothing to write about tonight. I soaped up, rinsed off, and stepped out of the shower with bubbles still in my hair. I didn’t notice it until I was drying my hair and things seemed a little… crunchy. And there was nothing I could do about it since I was already running late.



About Chelsie

Mommy. Beauty product whore. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One day novelist.
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