We regret to inform the readership at Woulda Coulda Shoulda that your intrepid narrator has suffered a rather serious injury and may be unavailable for the immediate future.
Early this afternoon, her brain exploded. Nasty business.
The circumstances cannot be discussed here; suffice it to say that a quick trip to the calendar to confirm the year (still 2004, as far as I know), and the resultant cognitive dissonance created between the date and the nature of the information before her, caused a complete meltdown and subsequent explosion of all brain matter.
Let it be noted for the record that said circumstances caused one normally reserved father to utter the following: “Unfuckingbelievable.”
Mir will be recovering from this injury during her time in the Witness Protection Program. Immediate enrollment was deemed necessary. We could tell you more, but then we’d have to kill you.
I hope everything is ok….I’m not getting good vibes from this entry.
So um…did you finally realize it was only a week until Thanksgiving, and um, six weeks until Christmas?
Um…I’m sorta with Kristie on this one.
And we need somebody to clean up all the brain matter. Quickly!
Hope things are back to “normal” soon…
and the teacher/ social worker/ person who used some form of discrimination and so had to die as a result said what exactly..?
(I can’t help it, you bring out the nosy gossipy neighbour in me)
This really scared me. The kind of fear that hurts your stomach! I certainly hope all is well, and of course I am dieing to know what it is about. Death or not, it’s killing me anyway.
Probably something like reading an email that was purportedly to her father but in fact was a poorly-conceived but too-well-executed joke.
The obvious remedy: re-read, get the joke, laugh, forgive, laugh again, reply with an email that outlines limits on future attempts at humor, take a few well-aimed hilarious shots at the trouble-maker, laugh yet another time, continue with life.
Well, what with all the head exploding and parental cursing outbursts, it’s good to know you are still compelled to blog about it.
I thought the correct term was “unbefuckinglievable”?
Dying to know what it was, like everyone else. But if there was a dad involved & it wasn’t your dad or your ex, it’s probably something to do w/school or daycare, so I understand why you might have to kill us if you told us. They’re touchy, those places.
I hope everything’s ok. Could your dad help us out on this one? Hugs to you and the kids and I will hurt whomever upset you so. :(
OK, I’m getting nervous too. Pregnant sans uterus? Dream job landed? Forgot to pay taxes? Do let us know. We will commiserate or laugh at you, whichever is appropriate.
When we were kids (middle school?) we used to call random phone numbers and say “Is Alice home?”
They’d say “Uh, no. There’s nobody here by that name” or similar.
Then we’d say “I guess Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore.”
We thought we were so fucking brilliant.
Ok, what did the Ex do??
Seriously- hope you’re ok.
Seriously hope things are okay with you. My prayers are with you and yours. *hugs*
Sorry, your comments programme doesn’t do well with HTML reserved characters, and I wasn’t watching the feedback space up top. That should have been a geekish best-wishes:
<fingers crossed />
Did I say that?
I once had an English Lit professor who insisted that good writing must be “BBC” (brief but cogent). I guess I done him proud.
Chaulk this episode up to a very bad practical joke and a good exercise in coping skills. Adhere to the tenet that poorly conceived efforts at humor should be severely punished. The perpetrator should be banished (and that’s kind).