Beings in my head....

I used to think that wet socks were the absolute worst. I abhor wet socks. Even if there is no way around them - stepping out of boots or shoes, hopping on one foot to lose the other, and WHAM. Wet socks. Stepping in dog pee is cleary worse than the aforementioned senario - however, as I’ve no more giant lakes to worry about, I’ve moved complacently back, to simply worrying about melting piles of snow, or, mostly hidden puddles left from H getting a drink of water. All. By. Himself.

However.

I have come to learn new things about myself - nothing, surely NOTHING throws my atititude to the wolves quite like finding lengths of errant fucking fishing line, coiled and curled, nearly invisible, either entangling my ankles and wrists as I attempt to empty a box still filled from moving, lurking in the sofa…..for no reason that I can discern, there are lengths, unattended, mind, of Fucking Fishing Line. Could it be, in it’s simplest form, that it drives me over the edge as it’s a reminder of a man who still haunts me? Or, it is irritating in its own right? Perhaps, both.

Counting down from 120 since December 5th, 2007, I have to admit: as bad as it gets, (and it’s gotten BAD) everyday is STILL one more day further from B. From the hold he’ll have on the rest of my life. Oh, sure. I’ll really need to count down 18 years before I can truely be free of him, and his array of neverending foul smelling shit; but I’d say, 120 days is a damn good start.

Which is why, it drives me so nutty to come across more fishing line - he thought, apparently, at one point, that an object, insideously harmless appearing, was an excellent toy. He gave an entire spool of it to H, to play with. Play with. If you can imagine. And ever since, I find bits and lengths of it, everywhere. In the washer. Among the canned goods. I know, rationally? It’s just bits of string. Annoying, plasticy string, but really, just string. Perfectly acceptable trash.

And yet.

It drives me. Stark. Staring. Mad.

My ears ignite, my hair stands on end, my mouth goes dry, small children and dogs run for cover. Lights dim, and the great, mostly hidden Inner-Broadzilla makes a surprise appearance.

Thankfully, I’ve talked H into taking it up to the trash, leaving Mommy to polish her nails, sharpen every one of her 487 teeth, and get her tail preened, prior to tucking Broadzilla away for the afternoon.

If you’re wondering, and you just might be, what gets me madder than a hornet, now you know.

Fishing line. And. Wet socks.