I noticed Iris on the landing, just hoping to trip and kill one of us. Then she can go in for our arteries while we're still warm. She also knocks any glasses you may have left on any surface down to the floor, where she proceeds to attack the stems and chew them angrily. If she can't see, no one should be able to, is Iris's theory.
Iris is filled with evil. I love that about her.
I think I have a type.
I went back to that sadist last night, the exercise instructor who comes in after work to try to kill us, leading me to suddenly think this is all a plot and she's in cahoots with Iris. Last night, she had us throw medicine balls at each other as we came up from situps. We also lay across those huge balancing balls and did pushups, and we did squats all the way across the room while we passed a kettle ball under our leg that was doing the squatting.
She was very into balls, is what she was.
I was dearly wishing a madman, or Iris, would come in with a machine gun or something, or that there'd be a tornado out, but a tornado probably would not have stopped that menacing heifer. "Walk IN to the tornado. Bring your kettle ball."
Who the Sam Holy Hill invented kettle balls, anyway? Did you see where Pee Diddly got in trouble for swinging one at a coach or something? You know who probably doesn't feel the least entitled at all? Is Pee Daddle, or whatever he calls himself at this juncture. I mean, I feel entitled, and I'm just famous on cell phone websites. You can imagine how deserving Pee Can feels.
The other exciting news, other than that I lived through that workout (my WRISTS were sweating. my WRISTS!) is that I had a phenomenally calm hair day. I noticed it in the bathroom at work, and when I came out, a bunch of people were sitting around the lunch table.
"I'd just like everyone to take a moment and observe my hair," I said. Have I mentioned no one at work likes me?
"It really is remarkably calm," said Neil. Neil is an artist, and we started our jobs on the same day, except he draws things and I edit things. I once ran into Neil and his wife at one of the First Fridays in Winston-Salem, when I was on a date with Dick Whitman. It was the first time I'd ever been spotted NOT with Marvin in 15 years, and it felt weird. I like Neil. Last year, he got bitten by I think it was a brown recluse and got very, very ill. He was out for, like, two months or something.
But we're not here to talk about Neil. We're here for my hair. Which we always kind of are.
"I feel like I should take this hair out somewhere," I announced.
"Yeah! Don't waste it on us!" said Neil, and here we are talking about Neil again.
So I took my hair to Subway. That's right. Showed my hair a good time.
It's a sad life when the fact that this is the best your hair can do--so much so that it requires you to take the asshole selfie-in-the-car shot--is the highlight of your day.
Look! It's even pretty calm this morning, and I've worked out like a dog on this hair. And slept. Plus, Ned.
The only other very major activity in my life, and it's hard to get past the whole my-hair-was-calm phenomenon, is that the vending machine at work continues to be out of D2, which is my joint, as my student used to say. D2 is the whole wheat crackers with cheddar "cheese," and it is delicious. I'd like whomever ate the last one to step forward so I can swing a kettle ball at you. It was probably Neil.
I have to go. Sadly, I must wash this calm right out of my hair, because my hair sweated last night. My guess is my hair will dry and go back to its regular manic state.
Darn, that's the end.
