My Sis called me just now on her way to see her guy, Buck, who is in death’s throes of sniffles and coughs and lack of sleep hallucinations, all those symptoms of impending death that only a Beck hovering can cure to wish me a Happy Birthday. #59 and not counting, though of course, there it is, counting.
Son of a bitch.
But talking to her just now reminded me of last year when, for said birthday (#58 then and not counting) she got me a little care package from Adam’s Market, one that included a murder balloon.
My post then from then.
//////////////////////////////////////////
July 10, 2022
So, my Sis got me a few things from Adam’s last week for my birthday. A surprise bit of groceries from a fave place that came with a balloon. Apparently, no matter how old you are you can still get balloons.
But it was a homicidal balloon, or murder balloon as Beck named it, immediately trying to kill me on my way home with my open windows and too loud music (no, the music wasn’t a balloon issue, I’ve just been loud lately) bouncing, wrapping, blocking view, everything it could do to make me dead. It even took a look outside like some tongue hanging dog balloon before it got back to its nefarious balloon nefariousness.
When I got home, evil balloon plan seemingly thwarted it proceeded to kill one of my fans instead, wrapping itself around the fans throat.
/////
Stopped at Home Depot for a new fan yesterday, answering the unasked question of how much someone’s gift for your birthday can cost YOU? 50 bucks in this case, but that’s not your bad Beck.
I mean, what are you gonna do with homicidal balloons right?
There was though, this. New fans come in boxes. Blind cats find boxes. Blind cats get comfy in found boxes.
Fuck you balloon.
frankenberrysattic.com 