The Gross Blog. Don’t read this. I mean it. Wait for the Angry Blog. We share too much, Soxies.
So. It’s been a week.
A week. And I know I should be able to talk about this. I know that. But… it’s so fresh. So raw, you know?
But something… something HAPPENED to me today… and it… um… it really put it all into perspective.
Before I tell you what the SOMETHING is… I want to prepare you. It’s really, really, really, really gross. Just reading about it will change you. Seriously. There’s no going back from what I have seen. What I have had to do.
So… squeamish? Turn back now.
Nauseous? This is NOT the story for you.
Wait on the angry blog. It’s coming. And it will be very angry.
Okay. I warned you. You were warned. You are a part of this now too.
Walked downstairs. Smelled a smell.
Let me preface this by saying I am babysitting basketball-comes-back-from-the-dead-guy’s cats. He has two cats. And they are great. They are adorable. And sweet and…
They WERE adorable and sweet.
I’m okay. My fingers are shaking as I type this. But I’m okay. Or. I will be. Someday.
Walk down the stairs. Smell a smell. It’s a smelly smell.
What, praytell? I think. I think in a very formal way, by the way. It’s probably all the unused classical theatre education. Or could be my early British lit degree, gathering dust in the recesses of my brain. A brain that, yesterday, knew no ridiculously gross horrible images except what I’ve seen in bad movies. I also think in a musical way. As those two of you who actually know me know… I’m kind of obsessed by musicals. I have a musical way of dealing with the Red Sox. But that’s in the angry blog. This, THIS, friends, is the gross blog.
Anyway, prior to my jaunt downstairs, I was well aware of the fact that a week ago hope died. I’m determined, see, to make this a GOOD day. To not reflect on tragedies of the past. On those stupidstupidstupid cheating Stankees. Or that stupidstupidstupid front office implosion. Or that… Okay. I’m fine. Saving it for the angry blog (which is coming. Oh, it is coming).
What, praytell, is that smell? And then time just froze. Seriously. It froze. Because waiting for me on the floor of my living room was something so horrible. SO HORRIBLE I can not describe it with words. It’s the kind of thing that could make Edgar Allen Poe faint. The kind of thing that would inspire Sam Ramey or whatever his name is, the guy that created that spectacularly gross “Drag me to hell” movie that I hated but that Tim guy I used to date loved (he did this teeth thing with his gums that gave me post traumatic stress disorder after that movie. Oh, and he jumped out at me and I accidentally hit him with a microphone when we got home. I had to give him one of my Dora the Explorer band-aids for his eyebrow and it was a source of great contention for like a week until I broke up with him for his irrational obsession with U2. And then the Yankee hat. It’s a complex story, and I’m just procrastinating).
Apparently cats throw up.
And when they throw up… they throw up…
It was a head.
And a wing.
And other various… parts.
And it was looking at me.
And I got sick. So sick.
And I called everyone. Seriously. I called the crazy weird earring guy I broke up with that came to my house that one time uninvited and left me post-it-notes. I called my friend Jeff. I called my father. I called the boy and left a hysterical message about how he needed to drive back from Raleigh and clean up my floor. I think I cried on his voicemail. Ohgod.
And I was just so sick.
And my guy “friends” laughed at me. IF THEY EVEN ANSWERED THE PHONE.
I don’t know what happened, kids. Seriously. I used to have a posse. When gross things happened like a tick on the dog or a giant wasp in my kitchen, I used to have PEOPLE. PEOPLE.
But I don’t have people. Not anymore.
I had to bribe a Charter cable repairman to remove the head.
It cost me five dollars.
And I was two hours late for work.
And it was the most horrible thing in the history of horrible things.
And it kind of puts things into perspective, really.
Because, compared to that, watching Sportscenter lately… it’s really not that bad, you know?
I mean, sure, Youkilis got a hernia, but I had to clean a creature off my floor.
And, maybe, if I didn’t spend so much time with baseball, I would have a posse that could clean up gross things for me.
I’ve lost my posse, people.
And I am forever changed by what I have seen. I had to wear latex gloves and a dust mask and there was a lot of crying.
So, the Red Sox, not that bad, right?
I just completely ruined your Wednesday.
Which is good, see, because now I’m not the only one not eating on a Wednesday.
Could someone drive to Foscoe, North Carolina and escort me inside my house when I get off work today? Because I don’t want to go inside alone now.
Oh, and the crazy guy? The one with the post-its who just shows up randomly to my house and refuses to let me break up with him even though we weren’t really dating and he’s kind of stalkeresque and has that ridiculously stupid earring? He called me back and left the following voicemail:
“I’m so glad you called. I’ve been thinking about you.”
SEE THE HORROR CATS CAN CAUSE?
WE ARE BROKEN UP, STUPID EARRING GUY. BROKEN UP.
No. I like cats. I am a cat person.
But I am not a cleaning-up-gross-things person. NO. I am not.
So my day is horrible.
And my outlook on life is different and tainted by the horrors of the world.
And apparently there are creatures in my house.
I hope they’re all dead.
I think I told you guys this story to be cruel. I really think I did that. I think it was intentional cruelty. And you know what? I blame Bud Selig for that too.
I wasn’t cruel before last Wednesday.
Oh, that’s good. I’m adding that to the angry blog.
Ew. I don’t want to go home.
Don’t make me.
God knows what I shall find…
PS- GO TIGERS AND BREWERS!
Oh, and the angry blog is getting angrier by the minute. It’s going to explode across your screen very, very soon.
Want a cat? Want two? I didn’t mean that.
I love these cats.
Ohmygod can you walk me home????
Ohmygod. It is 11:06. This is an update. And I found…
THE REST OF IT.
No one takes me seriously, Soxies. Called the boy and he said that I am adorably hysterical. THERE IS NOTHING ADORABLE ABOUT HOW I FEEL. And I am so not hysterical. Hysterical people can’t type.