I have bad news for those who come here to do some hate-reading: I’ve been doing well! I don’t know if I have any Schadenfreud-y followers, but I’d be flattered all the same. You don’t like me, but you still find me interesting, and I like that.
My dreams often don’t have any correlation to my mood. They’re usually a mash-up of things I’ve seen or thought about while conscious. That probably is how biathlon came to be and eventually how someone got the idea to make a biathlon lolly for the 2010 Olympics. This sport couldn’t have been a conscious decision. Sadly, I don’t think I can create a sport involving insolent biddies with bleeding fingertips.
To break down my recent dream: the bleeding fingertip was likely based on this perma-cut I have on the tip of my right thumb. It’s a tiny cut that’s existed for so long that I don’t remember how it happened. It’s not healing because I’ve been frequenting the climbing gym, so the skin around the cut has become calloused, causing the cut to split open repeatedly. I may be obedient when it comes to mask-wearing, but I accidentally handed someone a note blotted with my blood the other day. So, no, I won’t spray COVID in your face when I speak to you, but here’s a note with my biowaste on it.
The old ladies I dreamt of were nobody in particular. I live in Victoria: I could go to the laser tag place on View Street and still find myself surrounded by senior citizens. Sometimes it weirds me out just how stale the demographic here is. I hardly have the patience for old folks because they don’t seem to ever have the patience with me. It’s two-way hypocrisy.
The most distressing part of that dream was the presence of face masks. Masks have been a thing for long enough that my brain has given up imagining noses and mouths in my sleep. Has this happened to anyone else?
Back to reality: my personal space is starting to embody me, and it’s bringing me joy. I’d given up waiting for the driveway to be empty before hammering nails into the wall so that I can finish hanging my art collection. Instead, I’ve been opting to make a new perforation into the wall every other day with my Christ-like hammering proficiency. The landlords have yet to complain about my intermittent hammering, but they had comments about my recycling habits. I was confused when I got a text saying, “I don’t know what to do with all these cans.”
In what universe are aluminum cans NOT recyclable?
After a couple of unnecessary back and forth, I learned that they were opposed to my empty cans because they attract binners. They just didn’t want to admit to this. It may be that they’ve had issues in the past with finding their non-refundables strewn all over the lawn, so I shouldn’t judge them for being judgmental. At least we live at the bottom of the hill: there’s no chance of a binner causing an avalanche of aluminum empties. Anyway, the solution has me put the cans out on the morning of collection. That way everybody’s happy, except for the binners.
Along with silverfish, the place appears to have daddy longlegs issues. My handheld vacuum, once a dedicated fur trapper, is now a dedicated extermination device. If you’ve ever wondered whether spiders can climb out of a vacuum cleaner, the answer is yes. I stuck tape over the nozzle because I couldn’t fathom how a new one would reappear in the same corner I’d just vacuumed. Sure enough, when I removed the tape to suck up more spiders, two climbed out.
Now to erase that image from your head, here’s a plant wearing patina-finish jeans:
Not far away from this denim-clad delight, another household has added eyes to their shrub.
If that still wasn’t enough, this video made me laugh so hard that my landlords considered sending me a text asking me if I need help.