How many of us have watched people drunk blog?  Or read drunken writing?  How about reading something written by a woman stoned out of her gourd on paint fumes?

So Jose and his get-fresh-crew (really…his name is Jose.  If your dark mind is going to that place where it makes some sort of stereotypical comment, leave the room now.  I do not want to hear your voice.  Lalalalalalalalalala.) is in the hallway and the living room transforming dull suburban to less dull suburban.  It’s a rip roarin’ good time for them. They’re getting paid.  For me, trapped in my bedroom without food – not so much. Particularly when you factor in my stupid dog’s incessant barking from below.  Makes you want to take off his tags and open the fence gate, I tell you.

Where was I?  Oh.  Right.  Stoned on paint fumes.  :inhales deeply and twirls herself around the bedpost:  Strong aromas and I do not get along.  Perfumes and colognes make me blind with rage.  Cleaning supplies make me cry like a little girl.  The only strong aromas I like are gasoline, skunk and certain foods.  Don’t you want to take me on a date, now?

As if life weren’t freaking enjoyable enough with the hell that is known as spring in The South, I’m no longer safe in my own home.  To facilitate the drying process, I have turned down the AC to a brisk 68 degrees and we have opened the windows.  Paint and pollen! OH.  BOY!  Wasting electricity!  Bonus!!!

My head is spinning, my nose is starting to run, my eyes are weeping and puffy, thoughts are not jelling in my head.  I feel itchy.  My mouth feels furry.  There is nothing to slap. Even if I wanted to hurl a small, annoying animal across the room – I couldn’t.  I cannot see straight.

Even worse.  I have to watch CNN.

Earlier, I was thinking about writing some sincerely sappy piece about being able to get in your time machine and have a do-over. Not a do-over to change the course of your life but a simple do-over so you don’t end up treating really nice people in a less than nice sort of way.  Then the paint high settled in and I find myself feeling unusually not-wistful.  As a matter of fact, I’m feeling quite evil. Fortunately, the paint has rendered my mind to gelatinous goo so I’m fairly harmless.  For now.

Yay!  The painter just opened the door to the bedroom.  My bedroom.  My bedroom where I’m swinging from the bedposts, pecking out this post with my toes.  My bedroom where clothes, books, magazines, pillows and various electronic devices (not those, you dirty boy) are strewn everywhere.  I’m really hoping the nice gentleman doesn’t peek around the corner and see Mount Laundry in the bathroom.  It’s hungry, too.

The meows (as my son calls them) sought shelter in my closet.  Serves me right for leaving the door open.  Now my clothes will be covered in pollen and cat and stink of paint. The only things that will draw the kitties out of hiding are a sack of french fries and the promise that I will send the dog to live on a farm.

So there you have it.  Nonsensical, quasi-intoxicated ramblings assembled with the greatest amount of care for your reading pleasure.  Wishing I would just go back into my head and overthink the ever loving shit out of something, are you?