Hitting The Wall

It's crunch time. In just a little over a week, we're packing up what's rest of our stuff and getting the hell back into Dodge. The house is a mess, little bits of schmutz everywhere, boxes in between the schmutz that is everywhere, and yes, it IS possible to eat too many peanut butter M&M's.

I can't clean, I can't pack anything else because I won't have room to put anymore boxes till the furniture is sold/donated/offered as a sacrifice to the great god Kerosene and his brother Arson Investigator.

However, I did release some pent-up frustration and anger when I offed the upstairs neighbor. I had to, there was nothing else to do. I was standing outside, all dolled up in a fabulous ensemble of house slippers, unwashed sweats, and a tee-shirt telling some guy named Frankie to just chill the hell out. There I was, with my youngest child surgically attached to my hip, watching my oldest run for the bus stop, when Mr. McSceevy from upstairs insisted on leering at me. Not mindlessly looking in my direction while imagining how good that mullet will look once the hairplugs kick in, no. Openly staring at me, while dropping his cigarette ashes all over my patio. He can afford rent and hairplugs, but can't be bothered to spring for an ashtray. Anyway, as I said, I had no choice. I had to incinerate him with my laser eyes. I was just going to go for his heart, to give the Medical Examiner a good something to think about, but once they were fired up, I was unable to control them, and he was reduced to a small greasy pile of ashes within seconds. And, wouldn't you know it, they immediately blew down onto my porch.

I just can't win.