When someone tries breaking into your apartment and your roommate is already a scaredy cat to the extremist of levels, life starts to become a beat down. I was already having kind of a bummer week to begin with and now Holly is terrified to walk down the hallway. Pictures normally sum things up better than words anyways, so how about this for a sample of Holly’s mental state right now?
Just a very normal leisurely stroll last night with the dog right?
We have been reconsidering our original decision to buy a gun. Mostly because they are rather pricey, but also because I’d just be scared to see Holly try and shoot an intruder. I think I would have no qualms whatsoever if it came down to killing some guy or him hurting me, Holly, or my dog. Does it make me slightly crazy that I thought about what I should wear to bed last night in case the dude came back and killed me in my bed? I want to look good when people find me dead. I would be horrified if I had on gross sweatpants and a hoodie. Time to wear the overpriced, designer lingerie that still have the tags on, just so I look like a hot murder victim. Too much info?
To ease Holly’s stress over the intruder, I made us an appointment at a gun range for a private lesson this weekend. The lady wrote me back and her gun team is called, Lipstick and Lead, which is not a porno as much as it sounds like one. Only in Texas right…
I did use my time locked away in the apartment yesterday to cook a romantic little dinner for Holly and I. I am still as undomesticated as ever, but I’m kinda ok with that. I feel like domestication comes with married life and until that happens, I am fine getting lost in places like the kitchen, laundry room and where the ironing board sits. Dinner was actually edible, so I suppose I’m moving up a bit.
I am thinking about going to see my mom in Austin this weekend because I just realized that I haven’t seen her since Christmas. She was definitely not doing so well then and it was hard to see. I talk to her nearly everyday and I can tell she’s doing better. Apparently anti-depressants actually do work. She texts me yesterday to tell me that she’s gained 18 pounds since I saw her last and it’s all from the medicine. Now, most girls would have a meltdown, but Candy weighed in at about 100 so 18 probably looks pretty good on her. What a terrible side effect of antidepressants. I guess fat is better than suicidal, but are those really the options?
I know my mental future is bleak and I need to just start preparing myself going full crazy. Even worse, I’m going to live a long, long, time crazy. Both great-grandmas went full senile. One used to get nude and try and climb the wall of the nursing home to escape. The other lived til 101 and had to be reminded daily that her husband had died 20 years ago and no, she couldn’t see him. Now my own grandma tells me the same story everytime I talk to her on the phone and leaves me the same voicemails weeks apart. I’m done for…hopefully I will at least be fun senile and not mean. I want to be the grandma that can smoke pot and cigs and harass the little ones. And no matter what I do, it’s fine. Or dying by 80 would be fine too. There’s still part of me that’s convinced I’m going to die in some home invasion or wake up in some the trunk of some car straight out of Criminal Minds and realize that there’s no way out of it.