There are five pugs on my legs.
Henry. Lucy. Mimi. Olive. Miles.
There are also nine guinea pigs in the cage next to me.
But to be fair, there were only two about 3 hours ago.
And then the fat one went into labor, and I had to play guinea pig doula.
And by doula, I mean, screaming, throwing paper towels in the tank and running to the bathroom to throw up.
My mom collects furry things that reproduce.
I am house sitting for my parents.
Staying at my parents house is weird.
It’s in the woods.
In the middle of nowhere.
(Hi, this is me all but inviting you to come murder me now.)
My parent’s house and I have a rocky relationship.
The summer going into third grade, in the middle of the night, I was awoken to some weird noise outside my window. I stumbled about, half asleep, shut the window, climbed back into bed, and then had the very real realization that a man with a beard was cutting through the screen of my window to get into my bedroom. I screamed for my parents, the man ran away, and the next day was spent with police.
That kinda ruined night time for me.
As well as the ability to sleep with any windows open, no matter what floor I am on, no matter how hot it gets.
So, here I am again. At night. Waiting for Andy to come in a few hours. Oh, and it’s storming.
This is pretty much the trifecta of scary shit that happens before somebody gets stabbed.
I just had pizza delivered because I am too scared to walk to the car at night, as someone could possibly attack from behind as I struggle buckling in the kids and snatching old car M&Ms from the baby’s mouth. And also, I figure if the pizza guy is really old, or a slutty looking girl, that maybe the murderer would refocus his attention on them* and not me. I mean, if you scary murder a pizza person, you get
C. a car. Probably an old Carolla or a Thunderbird. Either one will totally get you laid in a bar full of single women who like monster truck rallies and have Nascar numbers tattooed on their boobies. As long as you don’t mention you murder people. Because there is almost never a good time to tell somebody that. (Unless that somebody is a cop, in which case, you should totally tell them as soon as possible.)
The only thing you get when you murder me is haunted. Which is both scary and annoying, because I am a nagger and I am super judgey.
I would be all…
Those pants make you look like you have a small penis.
When is the last time you called your mother?
Why aren’t you married?
Are you gay?
It’s ok if you are, I love gay people, but only the ones that don’t murder people.
But, you are never going to meet a great guy in those pants. Seriously. They are way too tight and your balls look like a camel toe. Do you tuck your penis somewhere, because you are like the murdery version of Jon Gosselin right now, for real.
Why does your apartment smell like a rotting corpse?
See!? Nothing good comes from killing me.
Anyways, I tried to get the pizza guy to linger a bit, so I wasn’t alone so long, but it was hard to do when I was also trying to maintain a one sided fake conversation with Andy, who I was pretending was in the den smoking a pipe and reading the paper, so it didn’t look like I was actually home alone with kids, you know, in case the pizza guy turned out to be the murderer in this equation.
But, I am pretty sure he was high, and I was making him totally paranoid when I shouted things like, oh look, the pizza is here, all 10 of the strong, knife carrying men in my house right now will be so excited, and, mmmm, this smells so good, I am so happy I don’t have to eat it alone and unprotected because of all the men here, and, oh, I just remembered, I should call my male friend who is a cop to come over and eat this with me, he loves pizza and guns.
I think he thought maybe I was taping a porno?
So, he left.
Andy says I can’t call him at his meeting anymore tonight unless one of the kids are hurt, or I hear the creepy music that plays in the background before someone is killed.
Andy isn’t even being logical.
I hope he gets here soon, because almost all the knives in the house are dull, and they have no baseball bats for me to defend myself with. In fact, the only thing I even have to throw at an intruder is a commemorative Barrack Obama plate, or the guinea pig placenta I scooped up earlier in my dad’s “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug because the boys kept trying to talk each other into picking it up and feeding it to Henry.
This is the worst night ever.
UPDATE: 9ish pm: The storm made the power go out. We are probably all going to die.
UPDATE: 9:30ish pm: Andy will not answer his phone, and I have now left him seven screamy voicemails.
UPDATE: 9:45ish pm: I am pretty sure a murderer just pulled in the driveway…no wait, it’s Andy…no wait, it’s not. Fuck.
UPDATE: 9:47ish pm: It was totally Andy, it was just his shadow that made him look like he had a knife. I barely slapped him. He is totally fine.
*Pizza Delivering is a noble job, and I totally don’t want pizza people murdered. In fact, I would prefer nobody get murdered, ever. It’s just that, if it’s between me and someone else, who happens to be a pizza deliverer, and one of us simply has to be murdered, I prefer it not be me. It’s not that my life is more valuable, it’s just that I like me more.