Last week the bad, bad drummer across the street practiced three days in a row. Dogs were seen running away for a five block radius. I did not think kind thoughts about the little drummer boy/slacker drummer man. I made a little voodoo doll and smashed its little drum sticks.
Just now, the ambulance has pulled up in front of the house across the street. If I was Ms. Marple I would already know the motive.
The EMT driver got out of the cab with a BULLETPROOF jacket. Hmmmm? Within 120 seconds people had drifted in from the sidewalk and houses to create a smoking pit at the end of the ambulance. Now they stand, sucking down smoke and speculating on the vast array of potential deaths and/or injuries. And people say there’s no community spirit anymore.
I don’t have community spirit, I won’t even go over to the smoke pit. I am a bitch-hermit. Someone has even made a short online cartoon about my life (no really, click the link, you'll thank me). I showed my mother.
“Did you write this? Are you sure they don't know you?” she wanted to know. No, unlike the goth girl writer-hermit in the toon, I don’t have a TV. If I had a TV I might accidentally watch a Hallmark special or something life-affirming. I might start feeling all snuggly. Then the goth police would come and take away all my Tom Waits CD’s, my entire DVD collection of Dead like Me & Six Feet Under and my Laurell Hamilton vampire/lycanthrope fiction. They would tell me to stop fantasizing that dead people are more stimulating and fun than living ones. They’d say Vampire and Suicide Girls are actually very needy and emotionally clinging and not nearly as complex/invigorating/sexy as they are portrayed.
It’s odd because now that drummer dude may be dead/near dead, I am starting to like him a lot more.
2 hours ago