Pondering Boogers and Panic Attacks

It's early yet here at the Asylum. It's comfy cool in the office and I'm flaunting the girls in a low cut tank top.. just because. "Unforgiven" trickles out of my computer speakers, the sounds of Metallica gently rocking my mind into submission.

The Amazon kept the truck yesterday and ran to Big City, coming back with a new hole in her face. My little hippie spawn got her nose pierced. I'd like to pretend to be appalled that she'd do such a thing, but to be honest... I'd love to have mine done. She's got a little pink stone, just a tiny spot of bling sitting delicately upon her shnozzola.

Cute as hell, it is.

I had told her that I'd entertain the idea of getting mine done for my birthday, but when I saw the chunk of wire that's hanging in her nostril, I decided against it. What happens if you get a hard one way up in there that requires digital excavation?

Not that a delicate southern magnolia such as myself would ever do something like.. go digging up in her left nostril to dislodge a crunchy booger... but sometimes.. shit happens.

I've been looking at the magnetic kind, at least I can take it off if I need to.

This week's noggin doc appointment was a little rough. She asked me some hard questions that I struggled through, but I managed. I felt 100 pounds lighter when I left, so I guess it's working. I no longer dwell on what would happen if I were to run into my dad somewhere and I think I've figured out that the smell of chewing tobacco is one of the things that sets off the panic attacks. The other is greasy mechanic odors. Daddy wasn't a mechanic, but he worked on cars all the time.

The noggin doc and I have decided that the giant monster I've built up in my head is just a sad sick little man who can't hurt me anymore. I'm confident that if I were to see him today, I could just flip him off and offer a suggestion or two of the various things he could go do to himself and be done with it.

On the flip side of the crazy coin, Ma wandered in to the living room last night as I lay sleeping on the couch and accused me of having snuck a puppy into the house while she was asleep. Then she asked me which doctor I was seeing and wasn't I going to get any better? Ever? She then informed me that I looked like I was dying.

Why is it that everyone else in that house can nap their lives away, but the minute I try to take a nap, I'm at death's door?

It all stems from the stress she's feeling since Dubya's death. I'm certain.. she's feeling insecure and afraid everyone's going to leave her. The other night she insisted that I tell her where I was going on vacation.. and when was I leaving... towering over me, hands on hips.

Vacation? What the hell is that?


There's been a new development in the big hay rolling scandal. The in-depth investigation turned up a single flip-flop on the scene. One has to wonder if they plan on taking the flip-flop door to door, looking for it's match, Cinderella style.

I guess I'd better get to work so I can keep those 38 hours I'm allowed to work now. Ya'll have a good one. We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!