Hello to all apples with little stickers on them, avocados with smiley faces, cats on footstools, excellent pictures on Instagram, lame chick-lit books on tables, well-chosen curtains hanging from curtain-rods, staircases, doorknobs, silly movies from 1979, Olympic athletes, smudges on the floor, fridge magnets, captains of Star Fleet ships, dogs in mud puddles, Coke bottles in the recycling, left shoes, stars on the back of notebooks, never-used gift cards, and wind chimes on your neighbor’s front porch.
My wrist is feeling better.
Maybe I shouldn’t be typing with it– maybe I shouldn’t be playing the E minor chord on guitar (it’s the easiest– doesn’t hurt!), and maybe I shouldn’t be concocting devious plans to take off my cast for a couple of minutes and run around feeling pleased with myself… but I am.
I don’t think a bone got fractured. If it did I wouldn’t be typing. I mean, it does hurt while I’m typing, but it doesn’t hurt hurt. Besides, the cast doesn’t control me, man. I’m a free spirit. Free like a wild horse. Uh-huh. Anyways, it’s a calm, quiet, blue and warm and pretty Saturday, and I’ve spent the last half an hour taking pictures of stuff. Mostly my cat. He’s sooo photogenic. In one of my attempts to market myself I’m going to tell you I’ve got an Instagram account and I go by the name of parrotqueen. By the way I have zero followers. Why don’t you go fix that? Hmmmmm?
There’s not much to do around here. I feel sorry for myself. My gross, sticky, yellow knee is kind of hurting– when I fell off my bike I broke the fall with my skin. Bad idea. I don’t know why there wasn’t a mattress waiting helpfully for me to fall on– aren’t there people who do that sort of thing? Place mattresses on the ground at tricky spots where one might fall off one’s bike? If I was the prime minister, I’d look into that. In any case, I don’t like my gross sticky knee and I don’t like that it hurts. In the Hunger Games I’d do so badly. I’d stub a toe and sit down and yell, ‘Oh, just kill me! Go ahead, kill me!’
I’ve been thinking about things lately. Among the thoughts is a theory on the creation of the universe, and the other is my great dislike of worms. Let’s talk about my dislike of worms. The gross little creatures squiggle around underfoot just asking to be stepped on and squished– like ‘Here are my guts! Make them explode!’ The other day I saw one, a really, really disgusting white one that was kind of bluish (yecckkk, yecckkk), and it was squiggling itself across the pavement, and I thought, Who’s the genius who came up with worms? ‘Here’s a good idea! Let’s put these slimy little animals in the ground and make them come out when it rains! And let’s not give them heads!’
Why don’t worms have heads? Do they have two, one for each end, or no head at all? Is there a tail? Is there not? This line of thinking is too disgusting to continue. I wish caterpillars would replace all worms. Caterpillars are furry sometimes, and furriness is much more acceptable than sliminess. My friend once caught a red caterpillar and named him Dave or something. Dave died. But I liked Dave– he wasn’t gross like a worm.
If I didn’t hate worm guts more than worms themselves I’d go around stepping on all of them. Because, as much as I’m for animal rights, a worm is a worm, and that explains all.
I should stop typing now. But the pain is minimal, and I firmly believe it’s only a sprain and not a fracture. Maybe I’m wrong and I’ll suffer long for it, but it’s hard to give up guitar, in any case.
Remember. Go and search parrotqueen on Instagram. Then follow her. If you do the next sandwich you eat will grant you three wishes.
Did that sound convincing enough? Yes, yes, it’s true. Yours as ever sort of sincerely, but without the sincere form of sincerity, ~Onceabasementdog/parrotqueeen/you know I’m on Twitter, too?