How HAVE you been?!
We, as is evident from the hyper-punctuation all around, are in a jolly good mood (and thankfully, THIS time, it's not the PMS monster raising it's many-moody-heads)! Jolly enough, as a matter of fact, to be buffing our nails on our ever-so-raised collars.
The reason, you ask (and you know it doesn't really matter that you didn't, don't you?)?
It is because, we have discovered that we are a handyman par excellence. *We*. We, who are five feet tall and know zip, zero, zilch about hardware-y stuff. We would be squealing and clapping our hands excitedly at this point, except that we know that that's not what handymen (especially the ones P.E.) do.
So we shall content ourselves with looking down our nose at anyone who cannot fix kitchen cabinets, because that, internet, is what we did do.
Kitchen cabinets with doors, which were, in falling off of their hinges, becoming potentially deadly weapons, because of their sharp edges and absolute slavish adherence to the laws of gravity.
Be banished then! From this household, O ghosts of bloodied toes! No longer shall ye haunt this kitchenette, which has it's doors firmly screwed-on, thank you very much!
We fixed 'em up good an' proper. With an hour (oh all right! five minutes) of study, and a small electrical screwdriver (which is the only hardware tool this household currently possesses).
We are absolutely *the* coolest.
Today, kitchen cabinets, tomorrow, the world!*
*And this (the whole post actually), kittens, is why we should NOT blog right after coffee!
In other news, The Brain has turned traitor to the cause of carry-on-being-sane, and is doing it's damnedest to think us all the way to crazy town. It's even promised us a nice little house with a view, white picket fence, padded walls and a lifetime supply of straitjackets.
The Brain (crafty bugger that it is) knows, that what we hate more than anything in the world, is not knowing. Ambiguity in anything, drives us absolutely batty and that is what The Brain is driving home again and again, with all the blasted questions.
It questions and questions and then questions some more, and then sits and rubs it's hands with glee (it's cheaper than hand cream) because it knows we're about to blow a fuse from all the thinking.
Will you just stop with all the questions, Brain?!
It has, in it's most diabolical move so far, forced us into reading What Should I Do With My Life** by Po Brosnan, who, for a living, writes books which tell people what they should do with their lives. And like it's not bad enough that we're reading...the-book-title-which-must-not-be-mentioned (suppresses shudder of revulsion), the book tells you everything but what you furtively picked it up, hid under your jacket and read by torchlight to find out.
This makes us very sad indeed and we are *this close* (imagine thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart) to turning to religion.
And the day that happens? Internet, be a sweetie and put a bullet through our head, will you?
In the immortal words of Calvin (The Bold, NOT the stoic), My brain is trying to kill me.
**And when you're through jumping back from your screens in horror and revulsion, and if you have a vague-ish idea that you're doing what you were *meant* to do, will you be nice and tell us how you did it? Discovered your calling, that is. Blog People, please...I'm on my knees here!