Sep 14, 2004

The final insult has been dealt

So, it comes down to this:

Abandoning my house, I can stand. It can be replaced.

The cats I can stand. It rankles, but I can stand it. The poor dears will need deep psychotherapy for years, but that's okay, I can handle that.

My car is gone. I hate to lose such a find piece of automotive history, but there are other Ford Rancheros out there.

My yard is a smouldering, pock-marked ruin. The grass gave up months ago. So did the Yard of the Month Club.

Even the loss of my sanity. It can't be replaced, but I don't need it THAT bad. Heck, I've been struggling along without that for more years than I've had Hot Tuna Melts.

No, this was the final blow. Et tu, cookie? I thought that it was so simple, that it would be cut and dry, that either they or I would perish in the fight, that there would be some sort of climactic, nay, Apocalyptic battle, and one of us would emerge victorious. If I died against their screaming little cookie assaults at least I would die with honor and glory, and would take an honour guard of them to hell with me. Or, if I were to defeat their sugary assaults, and grind them to graham cracker crumbs beneath my heel, I could parade about in my strength and lord my victory over all of the cookie aisle.

But that is not to be.

They have stolen victory from me, and the chance for a beautiful death scene.

I woke up this morning, and saw them. The living room looked like a battlefield. Well, it WAS a battlefield, but this looked more like the battlefields you see on the tele. Bodies everywhere, bits and pieces of icing, abandoned weapons scattered like pixie-sticks. Okay, so they ARE pixie-sticks. Sometime in the night they had stopped moving. They had stopped walking. They had stopped attacking. They lay, ignobly strewn about, covering every inch of space like the crust on the bottom of a really badly-made lemon meringue.

They got stale. They can't move, can't attack. All they can do is lay there. And mold.

Oh god, the humanity. The humanity.

Today's colour: sort of a ginger going to green colour
Today's scent: musty
Today's word: oxidation
Today's music: Mozart's Requiem Mass
Today's tele: the sign-off screen, where they play Retreat.

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