2003-11-08 - 5:10 p.m.
dear diary,
i spent more time than i wanted to on dusting things in my house. i wish i had more information on how cobwebs form and what they really are, because i recall my mother telling me years ago that they are abandoned spider webs or spider webs that were never finished.
but we know she's full of shit.
and, candy.
because these are weird ropy stringy strings of grime and dirt that form like how i imagine rock crystals form but in the middle of the ceiling. it has to be a dust thing.
i found dust bunnies under tables and the bunnies were so big that they had created a miniature civilization and were in the middle of practicing their trapeze act for their dust bunny circus when i vacuumed the living fuck out of them.
things have been scrabbling around in the attic for the last two nights, always at 5am.
we threw the pitbull up in the attic and slammed and locked the door. she cried and cried but i told her that she wasn't allowed to come out until she hunted down the scrabbler and killed it.
she failed.
the boy-toy doesn't want me to pressure her, but that dog needs to get it through her head that she works for me now.
i'm like dabney coleman in 9-5, but without all that sex appeal.
the friend from california found a mouse outside, fat on what is probably the insulation of my house. whatever was/is in the attic polished off a box of D-Con like mama cass on a ham sandwich. you really don't see a lot of mama cass references these days, but i have a special reason for using it.
apparently my new handle on the CB is "mama bass," the tough-as-nails-grandmother with a hooker's heart of gold. i'm still working on the inflection and tone of her gravelly, sexy, bait shop voice.
anyway, back to the dying mouse outside. the friend from california and i held a rigourous debate over whether or not it was cruel to let the mouse suffer or whether it was inherently right [and funny in a concentration camp kind of a way] that it was slowly dying of something.
he went outside and stomped on the mouse until it was flat.
to be honest with you diary, i haven't really decided which is the crueler fate. natural causes? or a doc marten?
i broke down and bought an extremely large book of bukowskian poems. so i'm having fantasies about the depression.
but more on this later. maybe.