Look what I found!

I've been having some anxiety issues lately. My therapist keeps saying that they're the result of a biochemical imbalance in my brain, combined with relationship stress and lingering shock from a traumatic experience.

I say that it's because I recently realized that I will never be able to bear and give birth to a child. And who would know better? Me? Or her?

The culmination of this anxiety, I'd say, is the hole I punched in my refrigerator door. My fingers were very buttery and slippery, and the kept sliding off the door handle. This frustration, on top of the "Junior syndrome" (my term), prompted me to find a new way to retrieve my iced tea. Boom! Right through the door

It wasn't as rewarding as I had hoped. Aside from the tremendous pain in my hand, wrist, and radius bone, the hole was too small to pull the iced tea through (and believe me, I tried for some time), and the new crimps running through the door made it impossible to open in the normal way, buttery fingers or no. It was probably the low point of the day.

It was the sort of experience that makes you want to slump against a broken refrigerator, your hand still stuck inside, clasping a bottle of tea. But as my head dangled near the floor, I hear the strangest squeaking...

At maximum curiosity, I released the tea, and found the nearest head-sized hole in the floor. And look what I found:

I had to lure him out with a piece of cheese (which—the gods must be crazy—fit through the hole in the fridge door), but once he got out in the open and set his crossed eyes on the comforts of above-ground living... there was no going back for him.

I have decided to name him "Lancelot." (For now, at least.) He goes through cheese like you wouldn't believe, but I think things are finally looking up for me. For me and for Lancelot.

1 comment:

  1. I don't know if I ever wrote about this, but Lancelot died about a year ago. Poor little guy. He was a little shit, and a good animal friend, and we were kids and grownups together. I miss you, buddy.


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