Level: Scratch Cat Fever
Voice mails are supposed to alert people you’re unavailable to take a call, not too act like a teenage boy making a prank. You probably think you’re hilarious. But guess what it’s not.
Today I made a call and this is what I got: “Hello…Hello…Hello…I’m losing…sike leave me a message.”
This makes me want to jump through the line and knock you out.
It’s mine. Stop parking in my spot. Find another one.
Our brains are program for patterns and routine. It’s why we always pick the same seat at meetings or home or why we drive the same to work every time, even without thinking about it. Muscle memory. And yes, that includes your brain.
When our offices moved about a year ago, I tried out a few parking spots before I found the one I like. I’ve parked there for the past 8 months. I know people know my car because it’s the only one of its color and make. Don’t park in my spot.
One morning, I pull into the lot and someone is in my spot. My spot. My unofficial, self-assigned parking spot.
Okay, one day I’ll let it pass, but now it’s been a few weeks. Maybe I should make a sign with my name it.
Teresa Lopez Only
They come in my dreams. Despair and dread on legs. They spin their webs, covering every square inch of the basement I’m trapped in. A bare bulb lights my path to freedom.
Beneath me is a cold concrete floor that I lay on; paralyzed with fear. Around me, patterned swirls hang from shelves. Silken strings dangle from woven nests filled with eight-legged creatures.
I feel every one of their eight eyes on me as I propel myself w/toes arms. Sweat slicks my skin. My heart hammers in my chest. Silently, I beg them not to notice me.
Muscles rigid, terror glides by silken strands slide across my body. What if they come after me; sinking their sharp fangs into my flesh or spin me into a cocoon for a late night snack?
The whispers of their feet catch my attention. I pause. I’m almost there, to the stairs, to my freedom. All at once, they scuttle to the edges of their webs.
My heart is in my throat now, and I can’t hear anything but the pounding in my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut, and I can hardly catch my breath. They’re so close. One misstep and…
I remember nothing and all, unable to recall how long I’ve laid here. Memory is slippery that way.
Cold slides across my body, stiffening my joints. Brittle bones ache. My lax muscles remind me of my diminishing compactly.
My dry eyes no longer see. The last light waning some time ago, leaving me shrouded in darkness’ embrace.
Foul odor mingles with stale, musky air, extinguishing my appetite. Its tangled webs stick to me. I no longer breathe or move, trapped a shrinking shell. I find small comfort in my silken cocoon.
I scream, but no one hears. Footsteps pass me by. No one visits. No voices keep me company. Nobody warms me. Silence stretches around me.
Time marches by, my hope dwindles. Hindsight is a tricky bitch. I should’ve chosen be cremated.
I can’t move, breathe, speak or hear and it’s so dark all the time. If I knew it would be this lonely, I would have been cremated instead.
Katty’s Korner and Her Pet Peeves
Scratch Level: Cat Scratch Fever
I don’t know anyone who doesn’t get frustrated or angry on the road. It’s why the term Road Rage was invented. So, here’s my Katty Comment:
I leave home in plenty of time to make my stops (got to get a caffeine fix) and for the construction work being done on the road, so that I can make it to work on time. But some people aren’t that conscientious.
No, they have to rush, pushing the petal to metal. They ride up on your ass, flash their brights, demanding that you yield to their temper tantrum. They’re in rush to get to work on time because they didn’t leave on time.
Well guess what? I don’t have to. Unless, I’m feeling generous and decided to move into the next lane. I will slow down (Mind you I don’t hit my brakes, but let my car gradually slow down). Then, if you move into the other lane and there’s a car in front of you, I will speed up so I’m next to that car and you can’t get over. Ha Ha. (I just hope one day I don’t get my ass shot.)
They swish in and out of traffic, changing lanes like they change their underwear, nearly causing accidents. They don’t care.
Well, I hope you get a ticket.
Here’s my philosophy on being late. If your going to be late, then be late, like fifteen or twenty. Not a measly five or ten minutes.