By We can pretty much file this blog entry under “Sh*t That Would Only Happen to Me.” Which I don’t actually have a category for… maybe it’s time.
The past few weeks have been dedicated to moving (yep, I moved again. For hopefully the last time) and as I’ve mentioned so many times before, I hate moving. I hate it so much. I’m also discovering that I hate unpacking just as much. Even as I’m sitting here writing this, I’m surrounded by half empty boxes. I’m avoiding looking to my left because there are even more boxes. Basically, it looks like a bomb went off in here because I needed to find something and I couldn’t remember what box it was in.
The actual day of the move was an insane blur. I woke up early and took a carload of stuff to the new house and then came the moving of the cats. I wanted to get them to the new place before the movers came because my old apartment didn’t have any good places to lock them away. So I piled them all into the car and away we went.
It went about as good as you’d expect. Burger, always the badass, was pumped to get into the carrier and go on an adventure. Guinness, who hasn’t been out of the apartment since the day we moved it, was a bit skeptical about everything but was game. Lemon, who hates everything that isn’t the comfort and safety of home, sang the song of her people the entire 45 minute car ride.
Then the movers showed up two hours early and I had to leave the cats in this strange new place which I felt terrible about but it had to be done.
I would like the record to show that it has now been three weeks and you would have thought they lived here their whole lives.
You’ll also note that it’s been three weeks and I’m still unpacking. It is hell. I don’t know where anything goes.
Also, last time I moved was during lockdown so I had nothing but time on my hands and I was unpacked in a week.
Stupid job.
So I’m rushing back to my apartment to meet the movers who are now sitting there waiting for me. My commute takes me across Lake Jessup which is the most alligator infested lake in Florida with a gator population of around 13,000. That is a lot of alligators just waiting for me to swerve off the bridge and eat me alive.
Now, I hate driving across bridges at the best of times (fun fact: my commute to work takes me over this bridge every damn day now), but here we are.
So there I was, driving 70 MPH across this bridge, minding my own business when BAM!
A goddamn fish smashes into my windshield, scaring the living shit out of me.
I’m going to give you a moment to reread that last line because I’m still processing what the hell happened.
I hit a fish. A fish hit me? My car and a fish hit one another?
It was startling, to say the least, to have a fish come flying out of the sky and smack into your windshield. I can only assume that a bird had scored itself a meal only to lose it on my car. I’m sure someone made a meal out of that fish eventually. Who knows.
Needless to say, my day was made far more interesting at that moment and I have a new story to tell at parties. You know, for all those parties I go to…
Avoiding Neverland 