Today I visited a woman whose house has been struck by lightning twice. Twice. Two times. In the exact same spot. Really? Why isn’t this lady purchasing lottery tickets and gambling like a drunk at the Kentucky Derby? If there are such things as “signs,” this is one. A big, flashing one. Why isn’t this woman raping the slot machines at Ameristar? Get on it, lady luck.
On that note, are you SEEING the lightning tonight? It is constant spider-web action. Go ahead and mark a third tally for the lightning house, because there’s no way she escaped this hoo-ha of lightning. No way. While attending the team meeting tonight, a portly, squat rent-a-cop strutted in alerting us to a tornado warning, informing us that a tornado had been spotted. Naturally we did the responsible thing and bolted outside to see if we could catch a glimpse. We didn’t.
Tuesday was spent in Kansas City with the team, attending a seminar of sorts. Of course we logically chose the worst driver to ever be issued a driver’s license to drive us there. I have never feared for my life so seriously. We spent more time driving on the rumble strips than we did on smooth pavement. Plus we got a speeding ticket for going 33 miles per hour over the speed limit, in a construction zone. On more than twelve occasions I had to reach over from the passenger seat to grab the wheel and keep us from careening into either the cement wall median or the Land Rover alongside us. I could not have felt less safe had Ray Charles himself been driving.
Anyhooter, it’s time for me to collapse into the warmth of my bed and dream of knives. I literally have knife dreams every night. It’s taking over my life. I call them “knifemares.” Ha. Get it?
“Shit, we’re literally an hour late.”
“At least we’re sober.”