Today’s usual fare was scrapped in anticipation of something much much more embarrassing cooler. In fact, yesterday’s post was almost scrapped for it, too. Alas, an emergency work golf has stood in the way of my self-deprecation progress.

Apparently, this is the post of strikethroughs. Bygones.

Leap Day has always wigged me out. For that matter, February as a month has always given me the willies. I mean, what the hell did February do to deserve such a calendar-hobbling? Did it sleep with July’s girlfriend or something? Did it get all drunk at December’s party and totally make an ass of itself, and so they had to take some of its days away to teach it a lesson?

The whole thing is highly suspect, if you ask me.

So, my question is, today are we getting one extra day or just two less days instead of three? It’s just an odd day, that’s all I’m saying.

Which leads me to my odd things post.

A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, there was a gangly, zitty, awkward Mr Lady in a high school just north of Denver. There she met a girl named Turtle. She didn’t know Turtle very well, but she wished she did. Turtle seemed way too freaking cool to ever be friends with Mr Lady and Mr Lady didn’t push the issue.

Sometime around May of a year in the 1900’s that is too long ago for me to admit in a public forum, Turtle took a minute out of her awesome day to give me an awesome signature in my high school yearbook. And she didn’t just sign it with her signature, like some people I know; oh no, she took the time to leave me secret, hidden messages all over this damn thing, messages that I have spent the last *censored* years finding.

What’s odd is how eerily accurate her little notes were. Like, she knew something. A few somethings.

Example:

• On page 65 of my yearbook, she wrote nothing but the word EGG. She wrote that word large enough to fill the whole page. And then, a bit later, a boy named Josh put his mark in my yearbook inside my EGG. And then, just a few years later, another boy named Josh left his mark inside another one of my eggs, and now we have 1of3. Odd.
• On page 9 of my yearbook, she wrote, “If you happen to meet a man on the street who’s head is aflame, tell him. He would appreciate it.” Many, many years later, I was sitting in the bar that I worked at, after my shift, visiting with a friend. I leaned over the table to reach something, and then sat back. A few moments later, my friend tapped me on the shoulder and said, in the calmest voice he could muster, and I quote, “I don’t know how to say this, but your head is aflame.” Yes, I had leaned right over the candle on the table and a stray hair met the candle, with disastrous results. But seriously, how the hell did she know that was going to happen? Peculiar.
• On the second to last page of my yearbook, she plainly wrote the words, “Too much sanity may be madness.” May I refer you to my I’ve gone totally crazy post to confirm this fact?

It goes on and on. Some of it just makes me laugh, like, “It’s all fun and games until someone looses and eye. Then it’s just fun,” which is my category name for memes on this website. The one that’s really got me worried, the one that keeps me up at night, praying that this is all a big coincidence, is this:

“One politically correct Blue Moose.”

Shit’s just scary, yo.

I think I lost my will to blog. It’s not anything bad, really. It’s just that I realized the other day that no matter how hard I try, not matter what I say or do, nothing will ever be funnier than this.

Please, check it out. Put a diaper on first. And maybe grab some tissue.

Today, I asked the baby what she wanted for breakfast. Yes, this was my first mistake. The day is young; I assure you, there will be more. Her answer, though…oh, her answer.

“Momma, I wan crack!”

(5 points to the first person who correctly guesses what crack is)

I know, three posts in one day is a bit excessive.

Yesterday was day one on NaBloPoMo as well as NaNoWriMo, which I have been very excited for. I actually managed to tell my husband what I was doing, wiggle in an hour last night to sit at the computer, and I typed. And typed. And typed. The goal is to write 1667 words a day. I made is straight up to 1415.

I was terribly proud of my old self.

And just now, while I had nothing going on, I thought I’d get a head start on tonight’s writing. My file? Looks like this:

That’s 1415 words in Typist font. Of course, in Works it’s an entire PAGE of that crap, but if I copy and paste it, that’s all I get. What? The? You-know-what?