Inside the Bird Box

Attention: I’m adding a new category to this blog, which is apparently still kicking. Anyway, the category is called: “Funny. At Least to Me.”

My reasoning for this category is simple. I’ve read enough of my own site, and I have to admit that the majority of it bores me, makes me sad or doesn’t quite get at the surface of what I need to say. As I’ve said in a prior post, this doesn’t necessarily bother me.

This blog was/is supposed to be a mad scientist/writer project, so there’s a lot of experimentation on here. Some meh things. Some pretty decent things. A lot of moving parts. It’s actually a breathing organism. Meaning, I edit, delete and rearrange things quite frequently.

I’m learning to live with this monster blog. It’s not so bad. But like I said: a lot of sappy, heart-heavy shit on here, which is truly me feeling my way around the dark. But I’m craving some funny bits lately, so I thought I’d dedicate some time to a category full of them.

So here’s my first Funny. At Least to Me story:

Today I made the grave error of sucking down an iced Dunkin Donuts coffee too late into the day. Though I’m a walking stereotype of a copywriter, I don’t particularly enjoy the taste of coffee. But I need my drugs, man.

So I drink coffee, then I can’t sleep. Sean, my fiancé, also can’t sleep. I suggest we watch something. Our long-limbed dog kicks the computer screen in her sleep to remind us of her presence. My fingers lightly graze her butt hole, and I shiver in disgust.

Sean and I shove our rude dog back into her place and settle into the unattached, dull plotline of “Bird Box,” the movie on Netflix that apparently everyone has seen.

Sean tells me: “I would never let you drive a car during a crisis.”

It’s a wonder that no one has killed themselves after watching it because this film is one of the biggest piles of cinematic garbage I’ve had the displeasure of seeing in a long time. I expect better from John Malkovich.

We’re watching the part where the little girl gets out of the rowboat, and I decide I don’t care. My neck is giving out. So I excuse myself and start up the old shower.

The warm water loosens some of the balls twisting around in my neck. My soap is something citrus. Very calming.

I forgot to bring a towel. A toothpaste-stained hand towel hangs from the towel bar. I open the curtain and call out to Sean to please bring me a towel. We have two bathrooms. He thinks I’m in the one I’m not currently occupying.

His face is the face of pure startled horror as he finds me in the bathroom staring dead-eyed at the door. I’m the Bird Box creature, a living nightmare. He clutches his heart and legit almost falls backwards over the second floor’s railing.

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