I did go kind of crazy in the kitchen, though, making way more food than I needed for just me.
As a result, I opted to invite Brian and Kathleen over for dinner. They couldn’t make it, though, as Brian had duty and Kathleen had a Pilates class.
Or so they said.
It’s just as well that they didn’t come over – whether they honestly did have other engagements or not, the worthless liars – as nothing that I made really turned out well enough that I’d have wanted to share it with anyone.
Of the things I made today the one that turned out best was the loaf of Banana Bread, though the pasta dish I made to go along with the steaks and fried Polenta was okay, as was the marinara sauce I made for dipping the fried Polenta in.
The one thing I learned from my culinary experiments was that deep-frying is a pain in the ass and even hours later you still feel oily and gross.
Beyond cooking I really didn’t do much.
I opted to go for a walk sometime around 10, though I cut it kind of short as I was walking sans Nano, which made the walk kind of tedious.
The reason I was devoid of music was that the Nano’s battery will apparently drain if it’s not connected to a charger even though it’s not actually on.
The other major activity I engaged in was mounting the paper towel holder on the wall. This experience, coupled with my previous experiences, led me to the conclusion that this paper towel holder is evil incarnate. I can’t even put into words what a pain in the ass the thing is, nor can I explain just how much I hate it. The worst part is how deceptively perfect the thing is. I mean, it looks nice, the color matches my cabinets quite nicely, and it should be a simple, straightforward device, but it’s not. It’s the Devil’s Paper Towel holder.
Look upon the face of pure evil. Don't let it fool you the way it fooled me. This thing is absolute evil. Stephen King could probably write a best-selling horror novel about my paper towel holder. Something similar to Christine, only, you know, with a paper towel holder instead of a car. Hell, King could actually write it on paper towels and it would probably still be a best-seller.
Despite what people may think – and yes, I am aware of how often I have to start off sentences with that declaration – I’m really not a very morbid person.
Pessimistic? Sure. Negative? I guess.
But morbid? Not really.
For example, I don’t spend much time thinking about my own death. I have, however, previously come to the conclusion that, despite the heart attack that looms inevitably in my future, it will be some kind of stupid accident that does me in, the kind of thing that gets labeled as “death by misadventure.”
I’d concluded that it will almost certainly happen in the home and that I’ll be dead for days before anyone notices, but I was never really sure what, exactly, the fatal mishap will be. Certainly it will be the result of some kind of idiotic carelessness, like electrocuting myself trying to get a bagel out of the toaster with a butter knife or something equally retarded.
Today, however, I actually had a vision of how it will go down, though not when it will go down.
Basically, what will happen is this.
I’ll be in my bathroom – either the bathroom here, or in another place with a bathroom very much like the one here – and I’ll have occasion to try to tinker with something on the ceiling.
Rather than get a step ladder, I’ll opt to stand on the toilet. Because I’ll be in my stocking feet, I will slip on the slick porcelain. Flailing about wildly, I’ll grab onto the shower curtain rod, steadying myself briefly before applying too much force and yanking it free, causing myself to fall sideways and crack my skull open on the edge of my bathroom sink.
Unconscious, I’ll bleed out into the vinyl tile, my pleather shower curtain (I’m pretty sure that I will always have a faux leather shower curtain no matter where I’m living) serving as my death shroud.
Ideally this is quite some time down the line, but the point is that it’s easily plausible, especially considering that I actually have had occasion to stand on my toilet in to tinker with something on the ceiling (the exhaust fan).
So it’ll either be that or I’ll be in the kitchen and drop a fork on my foot and cut myself. The cut will become infected and I’ll be too lazy to see a doctor about it and I’ll die from the infection.
Or…
Well, there are just too many stupid ways for me to die, but I’m sure that one day I’ll find the one that’s just right for me.
And there is always a very good chance that I will be killed by my evil paper towel holder.
Okay, so maybe I am a little bit morbid, but I don’t devote a lot of time thinking about the various Rube Goldbergian ways in which the Universe might make use of my laziness, negligence, and clumsiness to take me out once and for all, though ever since Showtime canceled Dead Like Me I’ve been forced to come up with my own convoluted death scenes.
In any case, I think it’s time for me to visit Death’s brother Sleep, which is something that won’t require too much in the way of domino-like cascading consequences.
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