duck, duck, goose...

The amount of f-bombs that have been flying through my brain the past few days, week maybe, has been utterly absurd, borderline appalling and so absolutely out of character it's often times comical. Which, I suppose, is why I feel compelled to write about it, knowing some might think I'm off my rocker. Or really angry. Or just weird. Hmmm... yes. All three, please. I share anyway.

I've noticed no one is immune to this critical, internal barrage. Well... maybe my mother. A strange look in my direction, "what the f---?" I yell at them, to myself, while smiling and nodding hello. A lovey-dovey couple holding hands in the grocery store, "f--- you". Cut off in traffic, "are you f------ kidding me?" Seriously, "what the f---?"

And tonight, while I'm prepping this post I hear a light drop on the seat behind me - what the... then, "F---!" (hard to tell, but all caps... definitely all caps). A big f------ spider just dropped from the ceiling to my couch. And now he sees me watching him and takes off quicker than a 100m sprint Olympian in all sorts of spastic directions. I grab my patent black flats and beat the living daylights out of it, flattening it paper thin to ensure no rebirths. Spiders do that you know - dead one minute, crawling, seemingly unscathed, the next.

And, while I continue typing this obnoxious, asinine post, a small movement to the right catches my eye, "you have got to be f------ kidding me." Another one. "It is f------ on." The other ballet flat is retrieved and utilized. This spider is faster and more nimble, but cannot escape my wrath. "F--- you, f------ spider." Smithereens is all that's left of it as well.

I urgently search  Google images, quite certain both were brown recluse spiders. Too bad I smashed them so confidently and ferociously their identifying marks are no longer such.

F--- you, spider.

F---. You.

I need therapy.