The Screaming Banshee Returns

I've got the insomnia. Again. This is not conducive to any sort of calm happiness & I am a whirling, swearing dervish today, barrelling around Chez Wilma with an axe to grind, muttering & yelling at someone who isn't here.

Our dishwasher has died an excruciating death, complete with much wailing & gnashing of teeth. I plan/dream of burning it on a funeral pyre in the backyard. Thus, the dishes have been piling up. If there's one thing I hate more than dusting & ironing, it's doing the damn dishes.

Luckily, we have a dishwasher downstairs in our bar. It's a small, pint-sized apartment thingy, but it'll do, Pig. It'll do. The dilemma today was getting the damn thing to work after not using it for, um.... can't remember how long. I almost broke a damn nail trying to get the damn hose attached to the damn tap. Damnit!

This, accompanied with tidying the facking pigsty we lovingly call home, led me to realize that if Puffy & I ever get divorced, it won't be because of infidelity, abuse, or money arguments. Oh, no. Nothing so pedestrian as that.

It'll be because of THE DAMN CRUMBS THAT ARE ALWAYS LEFT ON THE DAMN COUNTER!



You heard it here first.