allisonation

It could be a tumor...

Okay, so it's not a tumah. But golly-fuckshit, it sure feels like one. This is the third consecutive day that's woken me up with a pounding, smashing, stabbing headache. I can't explain it, but it really sucks.

So, I hate it when people ring my doorbell. I pretty much hate it when people come to my door, and I could go into further detail as to where this neurosis originates, but in the meantime I'll just attribute it to the fact that, when I'm at home, I want to feel more or less immune to the chaotic goings-on of the outside world. It's my nest. My sanctuary. I live here. Please don't interrupt me while I'm busy pretending you don't exist. That sort of thing. I won't deny it that this may represent something unhealthy or otherwise just plain cruel in me, but I really, really, really hate unannounced visitors coming to my door. Having friends over is one thing. Greasy, candy-slinging children, salespeople of any sort, and religious missionaries can just fuck the hell off. It was with this very sentiment in mind that I bought a doormat about a month or two ago. It's a nice little straw mat, thick enough to help with foot-wiping, and it contains one word only. No, not "Welcome"...my welcome mat says "Leave." That's it. That pretty much sums it up. I told my nice neighbors that it didn't apply to them, since I'm pretty good about turning off the psychic electrical fence when a neighborly neighbor needs to borrow sugar. Seriously. That's different.

But you can't imagine the overall efficiency of this doormat, and the expediency with which I've since been able to dispatch those inconsiderate fuckers who dare to ding-dong my doorbell after seeing this very blunt mat beneath my doorstep.

Example number one: Pretty young girl, nice fluffy-but-modest A-line knee-length skirt. Rosy cheeks. Stack of prints featuring what looks to be a nearly-nude, technicolor Jesus exploding over Roswell. I looked down at her smiling face as she extended a chubby hand clutching said Jesus-porn, and asked her, "Oh, is this about Christianity?"

"Yes, and I wanted to give you--"

"Tell me something. Have you READ the Bible?"

"Oh, yes, and that's why I--"

"Then you can read the doormat."

SLAM.

I get a big, juicy rush just thinking about it.

And again today, while I'm lying on the couch in my bathrobe, with an ice-pack draped across my pounding melon (feels like one featured in a Gallagher show at the moment) , debating whether I'd get more relief from throwing up, hiding in the closet, or slitting my wrists...a shadow passes by the living room window, and sure enough, the doorbell rings. Andre explodes into a series of resounding barks fit to wake the minions of an icy hell. My tiny voice in protest, "Oh, god, no...."

Liam was kind enough to answer the door. I briefly considered slipping my robe off and masturbating with a beer bottle or something equally shocking, but just didn't have it in me (yeah, I went there. I made that joke. Deal with it.) to do so. And what Liam described almost would have been worth sitting up to see:

A little old man on a Rascal ("in" a Rascal? Never rode one. Do you ride "on" them or "in" them, I wonder...), with a stack of copies of "The Watchtower" in his little crippled lap. And I hear Liam say, "Oh, are you with a religious group?" And the surprisingly strong, slightly arrogant voice on the other side of the door responds "Yes, and--".

And what does Liam say? "No thank you."
Little gimpy Mormon: "No? Well I--"
Liam: "Look. The mat's not just there for people who can use their feet."

I fucking adore you, Liam.