Summertime.

Hello there!  Here in Massachusetts, it is summertime. Or, as a Bostonian might say, "It's fucking hot, ya tahd."

So anyway, I spent the past couple of months doing various summery activities. This is mostly what happened everyday:

True story. 

Anyway, here's what you missed while I was away:

1. We got a new kitten.  She's so sweet and loving.  She's a little princess of benevolence and affection.  She loves to cuddle and sleep on our laps.  We couldn't have asked for a better, more well-behaved little baby kitty.

...Kidding.  She's bloodthirsty and hates us.

Her name's Rosie, as in "The color of your blood when she slaughters you like a fucking fieldmouse."

My mom is actually very afraid of her.  She often tries to defend herself with a squirt bottle, but to no avail.  My dad suggested that we should try wrapping duct tape around our ankles, so the cat can't scratch them.  I believe that may be over-thinking the situation -- I say we duct tape her to the ceiling.

2. I met my beloved guitar hero, Nils Lofgren, after a concert.  It's nice to know that I can now die happy.

The picture we got is something to that effect.

3. I somehow contracted chickenpox, even though I had it as a little girl.  During this time, I beat Pokemon XD: Gale of Darkness for the Gamecube. Time well-spent? Hell yeah.

4. My father got a new apartment, and it's like, ten WHOLE square feet! Yes! Major upgrade from last apartment! AND OUR NEIGHBOR HAS CHICKENS!!

This is a chicken.

5. We got a new couch. It's green.

6. My friend Annie and I tried to light a banana on fire.

Side-note: BANANAS ARE FUCKING FLAME-RETARDANT

Actually, other than fiddling endlessly on my guitar and finding a free sombrero by the side of the road (refer to the first picture), that's pretty much what's been going on.

...I think I need to get out more.

I can't do the sleep good most time.

I do not function well when I receive minimal amounts of sleep. 


My brain doesn't process reality. My body doesn't realize I'm awake. My eyes can't read words or get used to bright lights. My vocal chords and tongue won't do talk good. 


All of this severely damages my already inferior skills at surviving the day. This is bad. Very bad. 


It all begins with the alarm. That awful alarm. That alarm that sounds like it's vomiting a plethora of short-circuiting robots into my ears every morning. It never successfully tunes into any radio station. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's just a huge asshole.

Eventually, spurred on by the need to throw my clock across the room, I manage to extract myself from my sexy, warm blankets and immerse myself in the cold, dark world of morning. Upon exiting my room, the cruel truth of life hits me: I cannot overcome simple obstacles when inebriated by lack of sleep.

I speak the truth. Also, it's vital to keep in mind that it is dark as the inside of an dried cow bladder in my house in the morning. My natural survival instincts, such as the ability to switch on the lights, escape me at this time of day. The stairs are just the beginning. When I manage to reach my kitchen, I am greeting by my own personal Happy Morning Welcome Wagon.

The impossibility of the day begins to dawn on me. After shoving breakfast down my sleeping throat, and doing other stuff that happens in the morning, I proceed to the bus stop. There I am greeted by my neighbor, whom I go to school with. He always has way more energy than me.

After this point, the day becomes a total blur of unfocused classes and social interactions that I usually don't even remember later. I exist merely as a blob of living matter sitting in the midst of a world I'm not really mentally connected to.

The sad truth is, days like these happen often. It's one less day I've enjoyed in my lifetime. The sadness of it strikes me now and then. But usually, I'm too busy collapsing onto my bed at 7:00 and catching up on sleep to consider it for too long.


It's a lifestyle. I'm not saying it's a good one, but... you know. It's mine. So hop off beeyotch.

Mornings at Shani's Benevolent Bed and Breakfast

My dog is wonderful. I give him that. Yes, Sir Reginald is a very good puppyboy. He's quite obedient, and barks at intruders.  


However, Reggie really likes to vomit. All over the place. It's disgusting. When I come downstairs in the morning and it's all dark, there's no way I can see that pool of bile resting just beyond the final stair. 


Since bile doesn't really have a mouth, I can't hear it saying "OH HO HO YOU'RE ABOUT TO STEP IN IT BIOTCH OH HO HO."

Clearly, since karma wanted to pay me back for something awful I did, I stepped in it. Yes. Just like the bile foretold.


It's dark, I can't see, there's something disgusting and wet all over my sock, I'm trying not to fling my iPod out the window with my frantically flailing arms, and I may or may not have stepped on my cat in the process. 


Sort of luckily for me, this temporary distress gives me a chance to ignore the fact that the Sentinel Lady is watching me through her giant window, peeking at me in my bathrobe. 


...The hairs on the back of my neck just stood up.


AND! AND! As if that weren't enough, I thought I saw this through my French door standing in my driveway:

...it was really terrifying. I thought maybe my neighbor's insane dog hag gotten loose and fallen into some radioactive waste or something, and now it wanted to devour my soul. Hey. Shit happens. 


Upon a second glance, however, the formidable figure looked more like this:

Yeah. I thought I should share that glorious insight on mornings at the House of Shani. Really. Like, you should have been there. 


Um... I promise to talk about something better next time.

The Jelly Cucumber

Only spoken of in whispers, a certain tale of woe haunts the family with a spirit of squalor. It's hotly debated over whether this event actually occurred, or if it was just a tall tale spun to spice up an otherwise boring day.


My mom swears it never happened, and unfortunately, I was not present to bear witness. So, perhaps I may never know what truly went down on that fateful night...


The night...

of...

...THE JELLY CUCUMBER!

  

So, I have taken what I've heard of the incident and formed my own formal opinion about its legitimacy. 

Since I only have my father's word to go on (and that's not the best source for accuracy), I am forced to present the best understanding of the event I can manage. 

It was just an average evening at the house ("house" is an exaggeration; it was more of a tiny stand-alone apartment with a basement that smelled like poop and mold). 


My father, ever the healthnut (Cheetos is his idea of a mustard green) decided to whip up a deliciously nutritious salad to go with dinner that fine evening.

My father in the midst of intense salad excitement.

He cut up some lush, green lettuce; he diced up some fresh, bright carrots; maybe he even threw a dash of lovely sliced tomatoes. 


His salad was finished. As he beheld it in all of its leafy glory, he took a moment to absorb its sheer beauty. However... It lacked something...


But what?


He checked the refrigerator to see if there was anything to polish up the fine salad and make it shine. Eggs? No. Milk? No. Ham? Probably not. 


He dug around for ages, and finally... 


he beheld...

The heavens opened up to reveal a gloriously delectable cucumber, perched poised and perfect in the vegetable drawer. It was simply begging to be sliced up and thrown into a salad to fill it with the glory of the gods.


My father went to work.

He held the knife suspended over the magnificent cuke, basking in its phallic splendor. Could he really do it? Could he possibly deface this pure specimen of perfection? And at that, toss it into a salad full of unworthy plebeian-veggies?  

He pondered this. It took an immense amount of willpower and strength to battle this decision. But, in the end, the fatherly desire to put dinner on the table won out.


He touched the knife blade to the cucumber's skin, ever so slightly, and this is, as I understand it, what happened:

The skin parted and the gelatinous contents of the satanic cucumber exploded all over the kitchen, as if under extreme pressure. 

You may be wondering how there could possibly be so much crap stuffed into one cucumber. The truth is, I have no idea. Also, I remind you that I was not there when it happened and I do sometimes have a tendency to maybe exaggerate. A little.


Now, my mom insists that it never happened, and I suppose I have no way of truly validating the story as a legit horror tale of my childhood. However, one can dream. And I would prefer to think this one is true.