Spiders and Blood

A white spider, about the size of an aspirin, scuttled across my counter and did what spiders do. If motion pictures are accurate, they play the drums, hate Hobbits, swarm and menace and catch flies. There are no flies in my flat, but there must be something edible for the spiders, because I see one about twice a week.

Sometimes they make a little web in the crease where the wall and ceiling meet. Every so often you'll see one hanging from the ceiling. This morning I saw one, but he wasn't eating or making a web or hanging from anything, he was doing the backstroke in my coffee. An awful way to die, scalded to death by hot, strong coffee. One can only hope that it was quick.

From my perspective, there was something in my coffee, and then in my mouth. Kugel? English muffin? Dabney Coleman's soul? I didn't know, but I carefully felt it with my lips and tongue and then deposited it onto my finger. And then that moment happened. The spider and I were forever woven together in a skein of destiny. We crossed paths, as it were, and it didn't work out well for "Toby. " The spider's name, I've decided, is Toby.

Toby clearly mounted the crest of my "Le Chien" coffee mug and climbed in, or fell in. Unknowingly, I poured hot coffee on his poor little noggin. Fin.

In retrospect, I should have done more than just flick him off my finger and get the heebies. Everyone has a story. Toby could have been a great webber, an enemy of every fly and bug for a mile in every direction. For all I know, he could have been a magical spider, capable of granting three wishes, or some fucking thing.

But that never works out. Remember the Monkey's Paw?

Beyond that there isn't much to talk about in my life. Linda has a dental appointment, and I'm worried about her. Dental appointments are never any fun, what with all the pain and metallic intruments. Vicodin makes it worthwhile, but they offer it rarely. To me, anyway.

Last night, around 2am, I slithered out of bed to pee and listened to the silence as I held my wang in my hand and darted into the bathroom. There was some blood on my hand, but it didn't register. My leg wound is bleeding still, but it shouldn't have been on my hand. Then I was treated to an exciting and beautiful display, as blood took the place of urine and a fountain of red briefly colored the bowl orange. Eventually it stopped and yellow urine was flying.

But I thought it important to make a mental note of it; pissing red, check. Must mention to doctor in a couple of weeks.

It's disconcerting to see blood when you're expecting something else. Like in The Shining when the elevator doors open up and blood gets off. I was expecting Ethel Nichols and her Cocker Spaniel, Harriet! But there was blood. Suprise. Surprise!

Before I go and do whatever it is I do, I want to mention "Anonymous," the person who has been posting nasty and unfunny remarks to my 'blog. They never really bothered me, but my friends thought I should erase them. I figure let it go. I'm glad I did, because this person said some very nice things about me. I'm shocked, really. Just look at the comments at the end of the NPR entry. Just so odd, but appreciated!

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Look for me on that streetcorner, in that car, outside that window. I'll be there.