"A white Patrice." I can honestly say that that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me in my entire 25 years of life. Like online, in person, or other wise. So thank you for that.
Next on the agenda: WHAT IN THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK?!?!!?!?!? Can I please share with you what is going on right now slash today as a whole? Because today has been the spookiest day of my entire life and shit's only getting spookier by the minute:
1.) I'm still housesitting the haunted old McBlogger place, by myself. (Except for Evie. And the pet/family cemetery across the hall.)
2.) I heard a strange noise coming from the garage this afternoon that sounded like someone dragging trash cans around. How did I choose to deal with this situation? By physically clinging to Evie's hindquarters for dear life and watching five episodes of Bridezillas in a row to distract myself. I don't think she appreciated it, but I sure as shit did.
2.) There was a bad storm this afternoon and the power went out for a substantial amount of time. I mean, for fuck's sake...
3.) Directly after the power went out, an unknown number called my cell phone. I answered thinking it might be my parents, BUT THE PERSON HUNG UP. (...'Eh. That doesn't sound nearly as terrifying as it actually was. Time to editorialize.) AND AFTER THE PERSON HUNG UP, I GOT A TEX MESSAGE SAYING THAT I WAS GOING TO DIE TONIGHT. (That's more like it.)
3.) Tulane Chris and I were chatting tonight about his visit this weekend and he for some reason brought up the urn with my grandfather's ashes in the room across from mine. I corrected Chris that my grandfather's ashes aren't actually in an urn at all—they're still in the FedEx box that the crematorium sent us. 15 years ago. This blew Chris' mind, which in turn blew my mind because I'm aware that this is kind of an unorthodox treatment of human remains, but it's not that weird, is it? I mean, what's the difference between an urn and a FedEx box? They're both perfectly fine containers. "Meg," Chris said sternly, "You know what my childhood was like. And even I think that's weird." Bold statement, sir. Bold statement, from a bold man. But more-so, it got me thinking, what if my grandfather is pissed off that we never scattered his ashes or put them in a proper receptacle and now he's going to haunt the living eff out of me this week and/or seek revenge?!
That's when Chris proposed that during his visit, we scatter my grandfather's ashes quote, "someplace really nice." "Yeah, we're not doing that Chris," I told him, "I don't think my parents would appreciate it if they came home and asked me what we did this weekend and I said, 'Oh nothing special. Went to the blog panel, hung out, saw a movie, scattered grandpa Bern's ashes on I-95, you know, the usual.'" "I didn't say on I-95; I said someplace really nice."
We eventually met eachother halfway and decided that while he's here, we'll haul out the old FedEx box and say a few kind words together. Apparently this will "genuinely make Chris feel better" and put any haunting concerns I have to ease. Too bad Chris doesn't get here until Thursday afternoon, which means I have tonight and tomorrow night to survive alone. Which should be interesting.
4.) Considering this is the current view from my bed:
5.) And you know what doesn't make it any better? The fact that Evie's been sitting next to me in bed, tensely staring at the door for the past half an hour.
I can't decide if she's trying to do me a solid by being on the look-out or if she's getting back at me for all the Bridezillas I made her watch today by making me think her heightened feline senses see a ghost. Knowing her, it's probably the latter. Bitch.
6.) My parents have this spooky-ass painting hanging in the front hall, facing the front door:
Every time I glance towards the front hall at night, I see that guy's reflection in the window and think there's a 200-year-old Flemish man on the porch ready to shove his fife up my ass.
Which is when I simultaneously have a stroke and soil myself. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.
7.) As I started this writing this post (with old Quiet Paws McGee sitting next to me, staring at the door like it's on fire, mind you) I heard a loud bang outside that sounded like a straight-up gun shot. "Welp, I'm going to die tonight." I thought. I kissed Evie goodbye, regretted not wearing something more dignified to die in (...my "Big Peckers, Ocean City, MD" t-shirt and that's the ballgame) and prepared to meet my maker. And then I heard the bang again. Followed by a familiar fizzle sound. Which is when it clicked—they were fireworks going off.
Now, here's my question: WHAT SORT OF SICK FUCK SETS OFF FIREWORKS AT 12:47 ON A WEDNESDAY MORNING IN A QUIET SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD WHERE YOUNG, BIG-PECKERED GIRLS ARE HOME ALONE WITH THEIR NEMESIS CATS AND CLOSETS FILLED WITH FEDEX BOXES OF LOVED ONES, SCARED SHITLESS?!?!?!?! WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. YOU?!
And now my lips are chapped and the nearest chap stick is in my mom's room. Which I'm scared to walk to. So if I die tonight, I leave you with the following:
1.) I'm scared
2.) Hold me.
3.) I still haven't forgiven Suzy Soro.
4.) I want my gravestone to read, "Meghan Catherine McBlogger. 1985 - 2010. Daughter, Sister, friend, White Patrice."
That is if my parents don't cremate me and throw me in the closet with the rest of the family...