"Two Caucasian men in their thirties dropped from the undercarriage of an Air France Boeing 777 as it approached Pudong International airport in Shanghai on 24 January after a flight from Paris . One of the men smashed through the roof of a house, leaving a large gash in the roof. The men, who showed signs of frostbite, had probably frozen to death in the wheel wells of the aircraft during the 11-hour journey, dropping from the sky when the landing gear was deployed. Neither carried identification. Stowaways falling from aircraft wheel wells are usually escaping from developing countries and trying to reach the west." -- New York Times, 25 Jan 2003.
And you thought your day was rough.
For a moment this morning, I found a comfortable position for my broken backbone. If you get bored, you should try it. Lie face down on your bed. Pull yourself over the side until your hips are holding you naturally as you stand on your head.
And what's the first thing that came to my mind after a euphoric seventeen pints of my own red blood? The first thought was that my legs are out of commission and my arms are all I've got in this situation, so "Jeez, I hope I don't snap my neck and die hanging like this."
"Sure," I thought, "unsolved mysteries intrigue me, but does that dirty up my karmic forcefields watching those things? I know I shouldn't have read all that gossip about Mary-Kate being a coke addict versus simply anorexic. I don't want to flip off this bed and crash into that 20-gallon fishtank over there. Man, that Dyson vacuum cleaner really did a great @#$%ing job under this bed. But is that a ball of cat hair I missed, or just a brown recluse? I really want to take a trip to London. Pink cookies are good cookies..."
And then, just like usual, I lost track of time and realized I could go on hanging upside down and pondering useless smack for as long as my blood pressure allowed.
Unsolved mysteries. Cold Case Files. Biographies on nutjob serial killers: I watch too many of them. On tv. Let me just clarify that. It's interesting to me just how insane people can be. I can't watch them non-stop; I have to take breaks between them though, or I'd never be able to fully function again. I'd probably stay indoors for the rest of my life and knit socks out of cat hair.
I bet one comes on tonight, and I bet I watch it. Oh, I think they're interesting. Especially when I'm drifting off to sleep slack-jawed on the couch after a Flexeril. I have no idea what they are for exactly, but I figured if my mom sent them, they must be primo. Some people's mothers send cookies. My mom sends contraband. I love my mother. And all the pretty colors...
I'm serious, if only I were this productive, I'd be dangerous. Scary dangerous. Right now, I'm just scary. It's the humidity.
"It not only belonged to my great-grandma, it is my great-grandma."
I'm thinking about turning my cat into a pair of earrings. And if you've ever seen my cat, you know those will be some sweet fatcat rocks.*
*Aw, no actual Googies were harmed during the posting of this blog. Until he tears up my couch and then it's "Zoom-Pow, To the Moon, Alice."