Breathalyzer. Damn it. Driving after drinking? No longer socially acceptable as sport. From droll to deadly. Not to mention dear, with a five-figure festivity fine just for being found influenced. Hello key ring breathalyzation. Provide a petite puff into a pocket plastic box. Momentarily, a nifty number tattle tells the fear factor faced behind the helm. But…it’s occasionally contradictory. Which truth wins? The first puff, second or third? And wait, what state? Where am I imbibing? BAC is b-a-d to varied degrees depending on where you USA ST be. To be the designated driver, or designated drunker? That is the question. Unless the real question is, Just stay at home and drink alone? Numbers, numbers everywhere and nary a drop to drink. Happy New Year? Damn it. Breathalyzer. My life is a hell.
Holiday. Damn it. It used to be easy Xmas. (History lesson: the X is Greek for He Whose Name shall not be mentioned, just BTW.) But now, everyone is afraid to say whose holiday it is. That said aloud, decorating is still a thing, as long as there is no acknowledgement of nativity unless behind a closed door. But that is not the problem. The problem is, when to up the evergreens? When can the tinsel and trifles be placed around the house? How soon is too soon? How much is too much? Will my seasonal display manifest offense in a friend whose leanings one does not know? There is no obvious Christ manifest in this merriment. Just a wish to feel, smell, sense the innocence of every childish December delight. And what about Hanukkah? He was a Jew after all. (Are we allowed to say that?) Is blue and silver allowed to coexist with green and red? And why green and red, anyway? Santa used to be blue, before Coca-Cola. But soda Santa was festooned in the color of Christ and blood. The politics of decorating, the worries of preemie dry dead evergreen, the too soon, the too late, the too long, the dissonance innocence project gone wrong. Balls and garlands and angels oh, my. No winning in the war on Christmas. I'd wish you a merry merry if it was safe to do so. Here's to the holiday of hope. Damnit. Holiday is hell.
Mousetrap. Damn it. Mouse about. Detritus abounds. He has been here. And there. And there and there and there. (Surely a he. The evil gender designation for the verminous interloper.) Have to trap. Not a von trap. There is no music play to this ploy. Just the sound of trap snap. Sad. But necessary. Before his family feels infestive and joins the fun. Supermarket tiny trap. In the vermin and infestation aisle, alongside the pretty poisons. Glue trap? Eegad. Is there a more inhumane slow-death device ever invented? No. Old fashioned, wooden base, metal bail, baited trigger, a sudden simple sufferless death. This is your grandfather’s trap, thank grid. Set that night. Morning corpse delivered. But now…disposal? It’s a new trap. A dollar and change. Throw it away with the furry form? Dispense with the diminutive cadaver and save the set-up? But then, how to clean? Disinfect? Is it ever free from germ and bug? Does it even work again? Or does the next mouse sniff the trace of trauma and the scent of doom? And has this trapper violated an Eastern religion prohibition of killing creatures and ensuring karmic reincarnation as a critter to be snaptrapped in the life anext? Guilty. Cursed. PETAviled even. Mousetrap. Damn it. My life is a hell.
Blog. Damn it. Maintaining is makework. Doing it for doing it, meeting demands of insipid slog. Inspiration matters. The marketplace demands. Two weeks without? Eternity in the dog years of extant internet extent. A life of grinding down into hellish detail is all consuming, sucking valuable time from tiny tomes of dishing the OCD lifestyle. And what writer doesn’t hate writing? So many more funtivities to be had, like a toothbrush to grout. Grout? Hmm. Maybe next. Damn it. Blog. My life is a hell.
This is hard for me. My life is a hell. Be afraid. Or you will join me. TFTD: WTH?