(no subject)
There was a squirrel on my head.
Correction: There was a squirrel on my fucking head and I was screaming and flailing for dear life.
I like to think there was a good explanation for this, and it all starts with Mother Nature. It figures that in my after-afterlife, good ol' M.N. would end up being a promising candidate for Multiple Personality Disorder. Only a week ago I was peeling sunburned skin from my shoulders, and now I was freezing cold and peeling gloves from my hands to check on my cracked fingers.
I swear, bleeding cuticles were right up there with papercuts on the Itsy Bitsy Injuries That Have No Right To Be So Fucking Painful list. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had to actually hurt like this for an extended period of time, and it was getting on my last nerves.
Anyway, so there I was, heading for the compound bundled up like one of those hideous ski resort snowbunnies, when this grating, scratching sound just exploded right out of nowhere. I swear, it was like nails scratching down a chalkboard or something, and it came in these crazy, sporadic spurts from my left, then my right, and finally from above. So whatever, I wasn't all that interested in hanging around to meet the source. Naturally, I started to be on my way again.
Well what do you know? The noise just kept on getting louder and louder until I was forced to look up into the wide, glossy black eyes of the Devil Incarnate. But like hell I was going to be intimidated. I mean, I'd played the part of death's lackey for over a year, I wasn't afraid of no rodent. So I did the sane thing to do. I stood my ground, summoned up my best 'You talkin' to me?' glare and asked Mother Nature that volatile question known to result in back-alley knife fights and songs written by 80's pop wackos who just don't know when to quit.
"...Why you wanna be startin' somethin'?" Mr. Squirrel was not impressed.
In fact, Mr. Squirrel was so unimpressed that he hopped his fluffly little rabid ass down onto a branch just above my head, sending a shower of snow right onto my hood. So I picked up a pine cone, but my aim wasn't nearly as good as Mr. Squirrel's, blah blah blah, etc...
... And that's how I came to be in my current situation, which pretty much consisted of more flailing. But at least I'd moved on from unintelligeable screaming to a steady stream of "GET THE FUCK OFF ME! GET THE FUCK OFF ME! GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF!"
[OOC: She could use some help. She's currently wearing a huge pink snow coat with hood so she most likely won't get rabies. Do help her get the thing off though. It's clinging to her jacket and rather fiesty-like.]
Correction: There was a squirrel on my fucking head and I was screaming and flailing for dear life.
I like to think there was a good explanation for this, and it all starts with Mother Nature. It figures that in my after-afterlife, good ol' M.N. would end up being a promising candidate for Multiple Personality Disorder. Only a week ago I was peeling sunburned skin from my shoulders, and now I was freezing cold and peeling gloves from my hands to check on my cracked fingers.
I swear, bleeding cuticles were right up there with papercuts on the Itsy Bitsy Injuries That Have No Right To Be So Fucking Painful list. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had to actually hurt like this for an extended period of time, and it was getting on my last nerves.
Anyway, so there I was, heading for the compound bundled up like one of those hideous ski resort snowbunnies, when this grating, scratching sound just exploded right out of nowhere. I swear, it was like nails scratching down a chalkboard or something, and it came in these crazy, sporadic spurts from my left, then my right, and finally from above. So whatever, I wasn't all that interested in hanging around to meet the source. Naturally, I started to be on my way again.
Well what do you know? The noise just kept on getting louder and louder until I was forced to look up into the wide, glossy black eyes of the Devil Incarnate. But like hell I was going to be intimidated. I mean, I'd played the part of death's lackey for over a year, I wasn't afraid of no rodent. So I did the sane thing to do. I stood my ground, summoned up my best 'You talkin' to me?' glare and asked Mother Nature that volatile question known to result in back-alley knife fights and songs written by 80's pop wackos who just don't know when to quit.
"...Why you wanna be startin' somethin'?" Mr. Squirrel was not impressed.
In fact, Mr. Squirrel was so unimpressed that he hopped his fluffly little rabid ass down onto a branch just above my head, sending a shower of snow right onto my hood. So I picked up a pine cone, but my aim wasn't nearly as good as Mr. Squirrel's, blah blah blah, etc...
... And that's how I came to be in my current situation, which pretty much consisted of more flailing. But at least I'd moved on from unintelligeable screaming to a steady stream of "GET THE FUCK OFF ME! GET THE FUCK OFF ME! GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF!"
[OOC: She could use some help. She's currently wearing a huge pink snow coat with hood so she most likely won't get rabies. Do help her get the thing off though. It's clinging to her jacket and rather fiesty-like.]
