My brother Corey is about as weird as me, so when I’m like, "Hey, put this giraffe mask on and sit in the tub with a worn copy of Sleeping with the Enemy,"  he asks no questions.

We were having a lot of fun with this at my grandma’s house until my aunt Sharon got all agitated and kicked us out. I think she thinks I’m stealing heirlooms to support my heroin addiction and all the bastards I’ve birthed that I keep locked in a closet in the basement. She kept slamming doors and pacing around, jabbing the imaginary watch on her wrist. Later, she called to apologize, saying that she just wanted us to leave so my grandma would eat her lunch, that my grandma didn’t want to be rude and eat in front of us. My grandma always eats her lunch in front of us, so that was the dumbest excuse ever. She’s so  so bizarre, she should be made into a movie. Oh wait, I think that idea was already used.

It’s nice to know that I’m 28-years-old now and still not to be trusted.

When I was in high school, I filmed every video project I was assigned in my grandparent’s basement, projects about Longfellow, Canterbury Tales, and a short film I had to make for a writing class. Nothing that involved taking sledgehammers to walls or defecating in corners, we promise Sharon. It was too hard to do it at my own house, with two younger brothers acting like rejects and flipping off the camera every chance they got. My grandparents would always be fine with this, my group and I weren’t exactly scripting "Keggers on Film" and we would always clean up after ourselves. We were teenagers, not hoodlums, after all. But Sharon, who lived there back then too, would get so nervous. She would stand at the top of the steps and yell things like, "ARE YOU ALMOST DONE???" so that we would have to rewind the tape and re-shoot the scene, not wanting to include the unsavory banshee shrill in the background.

Her possession of that house is really insane, and I always feel unwelcome there. I shouldn’t, though; it’s my grandma’s house. Even before my Pappap died, Sharon was so controlling. He would let my friends and I hang out in the game room but she would pace around upstairs, huffing and sighing throatily by the open basement door.

Maybe she’s afraid her extensive porn collection will be unearthed. If she’s worried we’ll stumble upon the mafia-esque arsenal of fire arms they have stashed around the house, already did that.

I texted my mom after Corey and I conceded to the not-so-subtle attempts to evict us and said, "Sharon ruins everything," to which my mom was all, "No shit." We’re going back another day, when it’s guaranteed she won’t be there. That’s when we’ll break out the hookers and cocaine.

A few more from yesterday can be seen here.

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I dye the ugliest eggs. I was so excited at first but then quickly tired of it. Chooch was a big help. He only succeeded in cracking the eggs every time I let him drop one in a cup. Mainly because I would forget that I already had an egg in it. Before long, Chooch abandoned me for Blue’s Clues. I sulked for awhile, then took it out on the eggs. Easter blows.

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We’re at Home Depot and Henry is trying to teach me about light bulbs.

I’m not listening so essentially he’s talking to himself because trust me, Chooch could give a shit.

This place is boring and the sawdust fumes are giving me a headache.

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• We had some time to kill before the first band came on, so I was telling Henry about this guy Chuck who answered my ad for the photo shoot, and how he has his own project that he invited me to work on with him because he needs a photographer. His project revolves around people doing every day activities like taking groceries from the car, except that they’re nude. How could I say no to a project involving nakedness? One of sets he wanted to use is a seedy motel. Henry looked horrified and asked, "You didn’t say yes, did you?" My hesitation was his answer. He looked out into the crowd and murmured, "Well, that’s one way to get rid of you."
• My Blackberry never left my side the whole night. In between bands, I even posted to my blog. I mused that one of the merits was that it enabled me to fit in better with the kids because I can stand around lifelessly and text all the livelong night. After briefly scanning the crowd, Henry said, "No. You’re the only one doing that."
• I was relieved to discover that I didn’t know anyone there. Henry miserably grumbled, "The only way I’d know anyone here would be if they were friends with my kids." I laughed.
• The first band was International Giant or International Drive or Internationoonegivesa Fuck. I found myself creating a wish list during their set:
  • I wished the singer would stop doing that thing with his voice.
    • I think that thing is called "singing" in some parts.
  • I wished the singer’s t-shirt would stop v-necking all the way past his nipples.
  • I wished the drummer had not been wearing a head band and a 1970s inspired spandex wrestling tank in aquamarine stripes.
  • I wished they weren’t singing so many songs.
  • I wished I was there with someone cooler.
  • I wished the singer would stop wagging his tongue and thrusting his balls at us.
  • I wished I had a pony. With wings. A unicorn pony with a skull and crossbones tattoo on its ass that would gallop across the stage and spear the singer’s nads with its serrated horn made of steak knives bound together with barbed wire.
• At one point, two really fucking annoying teenage girls stood in front of me and the one with teased black hair leaned over and shouted, "I made out with a girl last weekend!" into the other girl’s ear and I really wanted to punch her.
•  I’m glad that my contacts arrived yesterday afternoon, else I wouldn’t have been able to see that the singer of Automatic Loveletter looked just like Kira from the Dark Crystal.
• Automatic Loveletter was better than I thought they would be, because I usually find affliction with female-fronted bands.
• During their set, Henry nudged me and very seriously whisper-yelled into my ear that the singer from Armor For Sleep (Ben) was standing next to him. He acted like it was no big thang, but I know that his inner fan girl was squealing and wetting herself. I noticed Henry stood up a little straighter after seeing him, crossing his arm menacingly, probably hoping all the little girls would think Henry was Ben’s bodyguard. I bet he was kicking himself for not wearing his bandannas anymore.
• When Automatic Loveletter was over, all the guys in the audience rushed the merch table to have their pictures taken with the singer, Juliet. Henry scoffed at that, but I could tell he was longing to have a memento of his own.
• The third band was A Cursive Memory and I was very bored during their set. The one singer had the most obnoxious front teeth, like he had just stepped out of a comic strip. About beavers. I couldn’t bear to look at him because they made me feel so nervous. I just wanted him to close his mouth.
• Right before their last song, Teeth shouted, "This song is about bread in spheres!" and I was like, "Wow, that’s pretty cool" but then Henry was all, "They said Britney Spears, you dumb ass."
• I pretty much wanted to kill myself all throughout Armor For Sleep’s set. Which is to say: They were really fucking fantastic.
• Henry and I got along THE ENTIRE NIGHT. He wouldn’t put his arm around me when I requested it, though.

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I was just asked if I’m 21 or older. I said yes but I have no id. The ticket lady was all, “No wristband for you” so now I’m stuck in the kiddy area. I’m struggling with how to feel about this. Who needs alcohol when there’s Powerade, am I right?

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Christina’s glasses arrived, packaged safely in an empty box of sympathy cards. Unfortunately, she must have near-perfect vision because when I put them on, it’s like looking through lens-less frames.

That bitch.

I asked Henry if we can just pass his glasses back and forth tonight at the Armor For Sleep show, maybe make all the scene kids think it’s the new drug of 2008. "What, you didn’t know we were getting high back there? It’s the new freebasing, ya’ll."

I’m a little annoyed because I’ve been trying to see this band for the past three years, but there’s always something in the way: a test, being extremely pregnant, work. I listened to their second album repeatedly for the better part of 2005. It was all about being dead, about someone who kills themself and then is like, "Oh shit," which appeals to me. I taped the singer’s face over top of Henry’s face in the family picture I have on my desk at work. Not so much because I’m all, "OMG Ben Jorgenson is so hawttttt" but just because he’s way more awesome than Henry will ever be.

At least I still have my hearing. Kind of.

 

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For over a week, I had been trying fruitlessly to capture a picture of the creepy cleaning guy at work. One night last week, I tried four separate times but my asshole flash went off, blowing my cover; twice he and I locked eyes, me frozen like a deer for an excruciating moment of timelessness, before finally pivoting and running away.

I tried over-the-shoulder shots, from-the-hip shots as I (probably very conspicuously) paced in front of the cleaning office, through-the-window shots which only resulted in the flash ricocheting back and blinding my eyes.

It was hard to stalk him this week, due to my lack of vision, but my luck changed last night.

Toward the end of the shift, I heard Eleanore in the kitchen saying hello to someone. When she came back to her desk with a cup of coffee, I hoarsely whispered, “Was that him??” She laughed and nodded. I was so angry that she didn’t even try to stall him! I ran out into the hallway by the loading dock and I noticed that his big wagon of garbage bags was parked at the far end of the hall.

I ran back inside.

“Bob! Pretend like you’re getting something out of the vending machine so I can act like I’m taking your picture,” I ordered. So Bob and I went back out into the hallway and loitered in front of the vending machines, waiting for the cleaning guy to return to his wagonmobile.

“I don’t think he’s coming back. You’re going to have to just go look for him,” Bob said, tired of standing around like an asshole.

So we went back inside.

Shortly after, one of the security guards — a friendly young man named Aaron — came over to say hello. I decided it was time to recruit new reinforcement, so I told him what I was trying to accomplish.

“Oh, you mean Bill?” he asked, laughing. “You know what to do? Throw some paper on the ground. He’ll have to stop and pick it up and that’ll afford you some time to take his picture.”

Best idea ever.

I grabbed an empty package of peanuts from my desk and told Collin, Bob, and Eleanore that Aaron agreed to go on watch for me.

“What’s he going to do? Whistle when he sees him?” Collin would not take any part in mission. But I know he’s secretly sad that he’ll soon be missing out on the shenanigans.

I offered to start sending him a newsletter and he was like, “Of what? All the weird things you say?” Then he tried to recall a time I said something normal, and came up short.

Ignoring him, I ran back out into the hall, looked around frantically, and tossed the trash in front of the vending machines. If there was a surveillance video of me, it’d be a ridiculous montage of me side-stepping, ducking around corners, crouching down, peering through windows with cupped hands, and fleeing with my hands up and waving.

“He’s not a rodent, you know,” Bob said, accelerating my giddiness when I came back to my desk to wait for Aaron’s signal.

Unfortunately, one of the other cleaning guys picked up the peanut bag, so I replaced it with a crumbled sheet of notebook paper.

I waited for hours (probably 20 minutes, really) and just when I was about to give up, I heard the gentle squeaking of a wheeled garbage can, followed by the swishing sound of a broom against carpet. Standing on my tiptoes, I peered over the edge of our divider wall and spied the top of Bill’s head from over top of someone’s cubicle.

“Hey Bob,” I said loudly. “Now would be the PERFECT time for me to take that picture of you.” He looked at me, confused. “You’re the only one here I don’t have a picture of!” I enunciated each word and widened my eyes, hoping Bob would catch on.

“Oh. Okay. Where do you want me to stand?” I pointed to the area right by where Bill was about to emerge and Bob said, “No, that’s a stupid place—oh, unless I’m just a decoy?” I ended up not needing Bob anyway because Bill walked right past us and started going down another corridor in between cubicles. I hurriedly snapped two pictures.

“Here I thought you actually wanted my picture,” Bob said, pretending to be hurt. But I think he really was crying A LOT on the inside.

“Oh Bob, if you only knew how many pictures I have of you that you don’t know about,” I said with a wave of my hand. He probably thought I was kidding BUT I WASN’T.

I ended up getting more pictures of Bill later as he was helping himself to a cup of coffee. I felt very satisfied by the end of the shift. Another chapter closed.

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Collin said that he caught some show on Food Network that was all about polenta.

"Was it awesome?" I asked.

"I didn’t watch it," he said. "I figured I get enough of that at work."

Tonight is his last night sitting next to me because he got a job in a different department. I’m kind of glad that after tonight I won’t have to shield my monitor as defensively, listen to him listening to the best of Lilith Fair, have my every action criticized, and learn of new similarities he shares with Henry. (They both have black hair and glasses and like computer things and Alton Brown, OMG.)

But I guess I’ll miss him.

About as much as Paris Hilton would miss the paparazzi.

I asked him if he’ll be sad when he sits far away and is unable to spy on my every move. Without any hesitation he said "Yes" way more emphatically than I would have guessed.

Though I know he’ll be next to leave, I still have Bob. And without having Collin wedged in between us, we’ll be able to talk about the Real World with greater ease, a topic Collin will surely miss. I’m angry at Bob at the moment though because yesterday he made a big deal about today being some sort of Mister Roger’s Rememberance Day, and everyone was supposed to wear their favorite sweater today. I mean, Bob hyped this so much that it was the first thing I thought of when I woke up. I made a point of selecting my favorite sweater to wear, feeling like it might be akin to spitting on Fred Roger’s grave if I had the audacity to wear a cotton blend instead. Or a polyester lab coat.

Bob is not wearing a sweater today. "Oh, oops. I forgot about that," was his flimsy excuse.

Oh oops. I forgot.

Just wait until the day he needs something. "Oh oops, I forgot about that," I’ll say, when Bob weakly asks if I remembered to bring in that spare kidney he needs to stay alive.

Regardless, it’s still a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Not that I can see much of it.

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There’s this really annoying phenomenon where kids act like having their face washed is akin to being splashed with acid and asparagus-steeped urine. WHY IS THIS? Do little girls pull this shit, too, or is just asshole boys like my son? He bucks and screams like he’s being shivved in the prison yard over a stolen eight-pager.

My job would kind of not be so bad if it weren’t for him acting like he’s being exorcised every time a wet washcloth contacts his cheek.

Or maybe he really is being exorcised. Then that’s pretty cool.

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1. LOST IN THE RAIN: It had been raining intermittedly all day and the sky was pretty, OK — very, overcast. But I still thought it would be Great Idea #465768 to go for a walk. I made it a few blocks before it began raining again; drizzling at first. It was in the fifties today and the rain felt kind of warm and refreshing. So I kept walking.

Another block or two and the rain started to pick up. The drizzles had turned into big fat drops that smacked off me in sort of an unkind manner. "It’ll slow down," I thought, and perservered another few blocks.

Soon, I was about a trillion miles away from home and the rain was coming down in torrents. My sweatshirt was so soaked through that the simple task of walking became more strenuous, like walking with a  toddler on your back. My jeans — drenched. The bottoms of them had been dragged through one puddle too many and made me feel like I was stepping with ankle weights. My hair slapped against my melting face in sopping ringlets. All the people passing me in their cars were probably laughing, but I couldn’t SEE them so what did I care.

At one point, I realized that I couldn’t tell where I was. I was afraid I was going to get ingested into the bowels of Brookline, not being able to see, but I just kept making lefts and eventually some of the blurred blobs I was squinting to make out began to look familiar.

2. A SERIES OF EYESIGHT AND BALANCE MALFUNCTIONS:  Before I left for work, I tripped over the baby gate on my way upstairs. I guess because in my present state of semi-blindness, I mis-gauged the height of it and the toes of my shoe clipped the top. I tried to catch myself, but ended up sprawled across the bottom three steps anyway. Hoping that Henry didn’t see, I quickly looked over to where he was sitting, but we made direct eye contact. He rolled his eyes and didn’t even inquire about my well-being. Right after that, I was walking across the living room and my right foot got caught in the hem of my left pant leg (I was wearing my dumb long people jeans) and I did a very graceful lunge, landed with arms akimbo, and promptly said, "I meant to do that." I don’t think Henry bought it.

When I got in the car to go to work, I hadn’t even pulled away from the curb before nearly crashing, because I had the car in reverse when I floored it and came nauseatingly close to kissing a telephone pole.

3. BROKEN HANDS AND REFLEXES: I didn’t realize how bad I hurt my hand during my daring baby gate hurdle until I got to work and tried to lift the coffee pot, nearly dropping it against my chest as the pain spread up my arm. I mean, I knew it was broken, but not THIS broken. I’m trying to ignore it but every so often it feels like the skin is burning. I don’t know what that means. And then sometimes it feels numb. So I moved my mouse pad over the left side of my keyboard and I’m attempting to convince my left hand that it can handle this new life change, but it doesn’t seem willing to cooperate. I’m not asking it to get a sex change, for Christ’s sake, I just want it to cradle the fucking mouse. I keep highlighting the whole screen by accident and then my left arm jolts and jerks forward like I suddenly have some sort of reflex defect now too.

Everything goes to hell when I can’t see.

EDIT!!! So I deduced that my hand was feeling numb because I had two hair elastics wrapped around my wrist too tightly. That doesn’t, however, change the fact that my hand is broken.

Also, I make no apologies for the myriad of typos I’ve been making in my current state of blindness.

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I’m in the car with Henry and as usual he’s flapping his lips into his cell phone. He always talks extra loud when he’s on a "business" call and it angers my ears. The nature of this particular call is for him to give directions to a truck driver (this is what he lives for).

"I’ll get into the warehouse at 1:00AM, get you off and then get you out," Henry said, unaware that he turned something as innocent as unloading a truck into an indecent proposal.

Right now he’s inside Dave’s Music Mine buying tickets to Friday’s Armor For Sleep show. I wonder how long it takes him to inadvertently offer to jack off the cashier.

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I just went into the bathroom to beat the shit out of my left contact, which was acting like an asshole. When I took it out, it ripped in half. So now I can only see out of my right eye. Where "see" means "squinting out a foggy window." Bob keeps shaking his head and saying, "You should have just told your doctor the truth" and I keep defiantly rebutting this. It’s only a matter of time before I start stamping my feet.

But Collin agreed. "You probably would have had glasses by now if you had told the truth and ordered a pair yesterday," he said. Ugh! Does no one understand that I don’t want to buy glasses??

When I was on my way home from the eye doctor yesterday, two Mormon missionaries were walking toward me. I squinted all up in their faces as the one girl pawned off a Jesus card on me, trying to see if one of them was the missionary girl I interviewed back in October. But they were two new girls that I had never seen before.

I graciously paused and let them talk to me, hoping that God would take notice of standing within such close proximity of religious people, and perhaps he would correct my vision with painless rays of Heaven light, like some sort of Holy Lasik. That hasn’t happened yet, but I keep checking my mail box ofr a voucher.

I asked the girls if they know Hayley. They both seemed taken aback. "You mean…Sister McRae?" the dominant one of the pair corrected me. I forgot that it’s some sort of weird taboo to use their first names. Collin said Hayley’s probably getting flogged right now for revealing hers to me.

Anyway, they’re coming to my house this weekend. I hope God is watching. Maybe he’ll have them bring me glasses.

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“Your prescription hasn’t changed,” my eye doctor said, pushing the butterfly-shaped apparatus away from my face. I started to relax in the orange leather seat, thinking that I would get to leave sooner than I imagined.

He pulled out a pen light and some sort of magnifying glass and after blinding me while forcing me to stare at his ear, he started pressing down on my closed lids.

“Have you been in a car accident recently?” The question made me pause; I answered no.

“Any sort of trauma? Been hit with a basketball?” he suggested. I said no to both, but started wondering what Henry does to me in my sleep that would change the shape of my eye balls. Am I going to lose them now?

Then my doctor dropped the false concern from his voice, adopting instead a tone of mild irritation. “Oh never mind, it’s because you wear your contacts too much.” He wheeled his seat back behind his desk and began scribbling in my chart, shaking his head at my irresponsibility. He told me that my over-used contacts have caused an allergic reaction to my upper eye ball area in both eyes. The name he gave it sounds like an STD gone optical. The good news is that my medical insurance will cover it, because what was originally just a routine exam (back when the sun still shone and birds chirped my name) was now an appointment to treat a medical condition.

“I’m going to prescribe you some eye drops. Use it for ten days, then I’ll see you again to check the progress. Don’t wear any contacts for the next ten days! I’m serious. I’ll know if you’ve been wearing them.”

I’m certain this was the point during the exam where I gulped. I’d have rather been getting a pap smear right then.

The conflict lies in the fact that I don’t have any glasses. I broke my last pair in an Incredible Hulkulean fit of rage, instigated by my extreme agitation of viewing the world through lenses. But I couldn’t tell my doctor this because five breaths ago I was swearing that I alternate wearing contacts with wearing my glasses.

I’m sure he could smell the stench of bullshit seeping through my cheese-clothed lie. He’s an eye doctor, for Christ’s sake. But I’m stubborn, so I left his office armed with a prescription and no eye sight. I tripped a few times on my walk home, flopped down on the couch and proceeded to panic.

How would I drive to work? How would I see who’s walking past my area? How would I spy on the creepy cleaning guy? Oh yeah, and how would I work?

I cried to Henry about it, but received no consoling. “That’s what you get. You idiot. Just go back and tell them you need to order a pair of glasses.”

“No, I don’t want to pay for them! I just spent $150 on a contact supply,” I whined.

I slapped my old contacts in right before I left for work, so that I could at least see while driving. Except that the lenses have grown ornery in their old, abused age, and refuse to stay suctioned to the curve of my eye. I blink and they ride up, like my eyes are trying to reject them. Even my EYES aren’t as retarded as me. I had to drive with my head tilted back, peering down my nose. Christina, trying to find the bright side, pointed out that at least I’ve had a lot of practice with looking down my nose.

Work was long and arduous. I took my contacts out as soon as I got there, so I had to pull my monitor as far out as possible, without knocking the keyboard off the edge. I  couldn’t slouch in my seat like usual or I would be too far away to see the screen through my furious squints.

The worst part of the night was when I tried to pay my coffee bill. The lady in charge of the coffee club was gone for the day, so I was instructed to give it to her friend Sharon. I’d never been to see Sharon before, but the coffee lady told me in an email that Sharon sits near her.

I did my best to walk over to their area of the building without reaching with my arms, an inherent reflex when vision becomes obstructed, or so I’m learning. Convinced that Sharon had an office and not a cubicle, I began pressing my nose up to the first several closed doors I came upon, squinting to see the names. The third or fourth door (blindness renders me dyscalculate, apparently) was open. I know this because a bright haze emanated from within, like I had finally reached Heaven’s gates.

I could detect a blurry outline of a human situated behind what I assumed was a desk. “Sharon?” I called out hesitantly. I jumped a little at the sound of my voice, which I had raised the volume on to compensate for my lack of sight, I suppose.

“No, this isn’t Sharon’s office,” answered the voice of a man. I squinted and brought my hand above my brow, like I was trying to see into the sun. This did nothing to sharpen the man’s outline. I know, I was surprised, too.

He tried to point me in the direction of Sharon. “No, the other way,” he said, as I turned to leave. I couldn’t see where he was pointing, so I was trying to fake it. He had to correct me THREE TIMES before I finally pivoted to the right and walked right into Sharon’s cube. He probably thought I was autistic.

On my way back to my desk, I took comfort in the fact that I didn’t even know who I was acting like an asshole in front of, so when I get my sight back, I won’t even know to be embarrassed if I ever encounter him again.

Until I inadvertently found out from my friend Jenn, who works during the day, that this guy in her department just got his seat changed. His name is David and I had a brief crush on him during our Christmas party, wherein I spent a good twenty minutes taking clandestine pictures of him sitting alone and brooding. After she mentioned that, it occurred to me that the man in the office sounded like him. I tried to imagine David with a blurred face. Later, when all the dayshift people were gone, I groped my way back to that office, stood with my nose an inch from the door, and read a line of fuzzy letters that spelled out “David [Hopefully-Erin’s-Future-Surname-But-Certainly-Not-Now].”

Great.

Today, I had planned to go to Goodwill and see if maybe they have a box of unwanted eyeglasses that I can pick through, maybe find a nice old man pair or fabulously over-sized owl-frames, in the style of Brett Somers. But Henry argued that Goodwill doesn’t just collect a box of prescription glasses to re-sell. “They probably send them to old people homes,” he reasoned. But how will the poor people see?

“Here’s a thought,” Henry posed over the phone this morning. “Why don’t you just call your fucking eye doctor and tell them that you can’t fucking see?”

“Because I don’t want them to know I lied! Ooh, unless! What if I call them and say that I left my glasses on the bus yesterday and I need an emergency pair?”

“Or, why don’t you just tell them you’re a re-re who has never had glasses.” When he came home from work, I had the bean bag pulled two feet from the TV and I was lurched forward, squinting to make out the undulating forms of Danity Kane. “Is this where the blind people sit?” he asked, with a roll of his eyes.

Once I’ve woven a tangled web, the lies and deception just get deeper and deeper; there’s no turning back now. And it’s stupid things I lie about too. I mean look, I’ve been writing on the Internet since 2001. You would think that if I was so into knitting ridiculous afghans of aspersion with a distorted reality fringe, I would do a better job constructing a polished image of myself. Like, maybe I would lie and say that I went to an Ivy League, perhaps Oxford, Photoshop my pictures and pretend to be in porn. But no, instead I’m like, “Hey, I’m a fatso! And a high school drop out! I’m not even awesome enough to have a hot boyfriend!”

But glasses I’ll lie about.

Henry sad he might have his old glasses, a pair of 1980’s aviators. I really hope he finds them, because I bet they’d cover at least half of my face. Until then, Christina is sending me her glasses.

I’m starting to lose sight (ha-ha) of my initial point. Why am I doing this again? Oh right, because I’m an idiot.

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On Henry’s watch, Chooch rummages through dumpsters, looking for a discarded pencil with which to stir his gruel. Also, he may or may not swallow small coins; Henry’s not sure. Happy poop-sifting, Henry. You asshole.

(Seriously, I have vivid images of those two wallowing in filth while I’m at work.)

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