Basically, I'm Pretty Much a Criminal

Finley, our old dog, has been chewing at his front leg-- probably to attain some amount of attention, even the negative kind, as we've been focusing on trying to beat our young dog, Molly, into submission.

Yesterday evening, I sprayed his leg with dog medication that expired two years ago.

If you could ask the nice men to put a jacket over the handcuffs so the neighbors don't have to see, I'd really appreciate it.

I don't know when I basically became pretty much a criminal, but it happened. Somehow, somewhere along the way, you lose things, just a little bit at first.

I still pay all my bills on time. Early, even. But maybe one day, I'll forget to pay the water bill. Maybe it will be in May, as I get all heady with kiss-my-ass excitement over my 31st birthday. It could be in August, as heat exhaustion melts my brain into something resembling three-year-old apple cider and coagulated buttercream.

Apparently, according to the local ski shop, I've been skiing on skis whose bindings are no longer "indemnifiable." So, I'm a criminal on the slopes, too. And I thought there I was only guilty of perpetrating crimes against the laws of fashion. Pull me over, Tim Gunn, P.D.

Sometimes, I wear the same pair of trousers for three or so days in a row. I just can't be bothered to take out my wallet, my Burt's Bees, my keys, my cellphone holster, my cellphone, and unloop my belt and then do the whole shenanigan over again with a new pair of trousers every day.

I mean, really? Every day? Come on. It's not like I shit myself or rub my ass in tartar sauce. Why should I change trousers every day? I'm a very clean person.

Except for the fact that I don't change my trousers every day.

Oh, and sometimes I go a little too long between showers. Like, long enough to forget which way the faucet turns to get hot and which way it turns to get cold. But... we don't really need to talk about that anymore.

When I'm alone in my car, I sometimes shout the "N-word" at drivers who do unbelievably annoying things in front of me-- like drive the speed limit, for instance. These drivers, especially in my neighborhood, are invariably not black. Still, it's wrong, and I know that, and it's just another reason why, basically, I'm pretty much a criminal.

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When people talk to me, sometimes I visualize terrible things happening to them. I have fantasies about doing some pretty off-the-wall shit, but I never do it. Like, at work, we're doing Secret Santas-- only for those who want to participate. I thought it would be hilarious to select a female coworker, and then buy her underwear (in her exact bra and panty size) and scented lotion and shit, just for shits and giggles. Because, let's face it-- my sense of humor is very fucked up and, basically, pretty much criminal.

I'd like to tell my sister that, while I love her, I don't like her. And that's kind of a criminal thing to do to a family member. In fact, short of placing a hot iron on a family member's face, I can't really think of a more awful thing you could do to a family member, to let them know that your obligation and connection to them is strictly obligatory, and that, if given the choice, you would rather be in a room with an ox suffering from nuclear diarrhea than with your own sibling-- but it's true.

And I wish it weren't. And I suppose that's something that makes me slightly less than criminal. But I really should call the vet soon.