Just Call Me Death Warmed Over

now i've never committed murder but i am fairly certain that homicidal rage can occur in one of two ways. either there is a big monumental rage-causing event (such as discovering that your husband has thrown away the half-pan of brownies you were saving for dinner when you were 9+ months pregnant because he did not want them. side note: who does that!?). or it can be the accumulation of a lot of seemingly inconsequential things. likely compounded by a serious lack of sleep and picking green beans out of your unwashed, uncombed hair on the way to work. it was this second type of homicidal rage that overtook me yesterday.

the details themselves are mundane so i won't waste space on the internet. however, the state of homicidal rage provides a strange heightened sense of awareness. when i was riding my bike home barefoot (long story) and the little nubs of my purple glow-in-the-dark plastic pedals were boring into my previously-perfectly-pedicured feet, i had the opportunity to visualize and ponder the phrase "when the shit hits the fan." it is truly representative of the lead-in to the homicidal rage. having become more closely acquainted with poo in the last 5 months, i believe whole heartedly that shit itself, existing quietly in a pile perhaps even in an easily-disposable package, is bad enough. shit in motion is just plain wrong.

also, i can now officially appreciate the phrase "bone tired" and it doesn't have anything to do with fatigue in the bones. it's actually when you finally get a chance to lay down and you feel like your skin is so tired and worn out that you're not sure it's going to keep holding your bones in.