I won the shitty superpower lottery.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I have spidey senses.
About spiders.

You know when you’re watching a horror flick, the feeling you get when shit’s about to go down? Like when the creepy music swells while the chick with the finicky flashlight is walking cautiously through the spooky house, and your heart is pounding because you just know one of these times when the camera angle changes, there’s gonna be a ghost-demon-thing right fucking behind her?

Or when it’s nail-bitingly obvious that the hot skinny dipping teens in the lake have only moments in which to keep giggling and making out with each other before some sort of Cthulhuian nightmare grabs somebody or other’s foot and drags them down into the deep?

Or when you see a bunch of children with 80s hair standing around a yellow kitchen and all the knuckle-whitening signs are there that the Kool-Aid Man’s about to burst through a wall and cost little Kimmy’s parents thousands of dollars in property damage?

*shudder*

Anyway, I have that about spiders.

I’ll be sitting on the toilet, or curled up in bed with a book, or checking the fridge for the 17th time in a five minute span to see if a large stockpile of chocolate mousse has magically appeared inside it since I last opened the door, and I’ll know.

There is a spider somewhere nearby.

Watching me.

Waiting.

But the spiders have their timing down to a science. They never come out right when my spidey senses start tingling. They wait. Until I start to doubt. Until a moment when I’m distracted enough to let down my guard.

And then…SPIDER SURPRISE.

But not really a surprise, because I fucking KNEW it was coming, and that just somehow makes it all so much worse. The knowing but still not knowing.

I would like to give this gift back, please and thank you. It’s not good for what remains of my rapidly dwindling sanity.

My spidey senses tingled yesterday morning as I was getting ready for work. I checked under the bed. Looked behind the dresser. Shook out the shower curtain and peered into the tub.

Nada.

I shrugged and went to work. But I knew there was a spider in my near future.

It was a long day at the office. When I got home, I decided to take a nice relaxing soak in the bath. Still on high arachnid alert, I conducted an even more thorough search of the bathroom for before running the water, but there were zero signs of any eight-legged intruders. I tossed in a bath bomb and let the faucet flow while I went to pick out a book to read.

The water was silky and aromatherapeutic and just the right temperature when I stepped in. And spider-free. Let the record show that there were absolutely no spiders in the tub when I got into the water. I checked. Multiple times.

So why the hell, two chapters later, did I look up from my book only to see one slowly drowning by my big toe?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRGGGHHHH$&#$1%@ JESUS FUCK NO NO NO DO NOT WANT

So yeah. There he was. And there I was. We sat there a moment, just being there together. Well, I sat. He continued to drown.

I don’t know how he got there. I checked everywhere. Unless God or Loki or Alanis Morissette or whoever is getting their rocks off by chucking spiders into my bathwater out of thin air, I cannot explain this sudden spider.

And indeed there may have been some sort of divine intervention at play, because I had the strange and entirely un-Nut-like passing thought that perhaps I should do the charitable thing and scoop him out of danger.

Instead I took a picture, pulled the plug, and waved goodbye with my favorite finger.

What?

Bad enough the little fuckers are stealing my birth control, now they’re using up my bath bombs too? Bastard deserved it.

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The Imperial merch.

Did you ever play Trouble with your friends as a kid? I fucking loved that game. I still love that game.

Can’t you just conjure up the satisfying feeling of popping that trademark Pop-O-Matic dome? Remember the frustration you felt when someone landed on your piece and sent you back to the beginning? The feeling of karmic glee when you got your revenge? The unbeatable satisfaction of pulling off the perfect die roll to get that last peg over the finish line?

And gosh, don’t you remember thinking how much better the game would be if, in place of the same old boring original version, you had an officially licensed Star Wars edition instead?

…yeah, me neither. But damned if they didn’t decide the world needed one anyway.

Goddammit, Rey, you’re better than this.

Not a Star Wars fan? Good news! According to Wikipedia, they’ve already been cheapening this game with other unnecessary themed editions for years! Take your game pieces for a spin around the racetrack with Trouble: Cars 2, or just let them go, let them go! with Trouble: Frozen. There’s even Trouble: SpongeBob SquarePants for those times when you feel the irresistible urge to move pegs around a board while contemplating who lives in a pineapple under the sea.

Or maybe just stare out a window instead and lament what this world is coming to.

As Nutty Hubby remarked when I texted him this photo, “Out of hand, this has gotten.”

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This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but an irritating jingle.

Yesterday there was a wait at the pharmacy to pick up my prescription. I could have sat in the provided chairs and played games on my phone, or passed the time idly browsing the magazine racks, but instead I did the stupid thing and wandered aimlessly through the tattered remains of retail Halloween in the seasonal aisle.

I thought I would be okay so long as I didn’t make eye contact with any boxes or bags of leftover candy (lest they leap into my arms and beg piteously to come home with me), but in the process of avoiding the magnetic lure of empty calories, I locked eyes with something much worse.

“Hey Boss, you know how they call zombies ‘the living dead’? We should totes go literal with that!” “My god, Jenkins, you’re a genius!”

Let’s talk about all the problems I have with these.

First and foremost, WHY DO CHIA PETS STILL EXIST?! I cannot remotely comprehend how something that is basically Pet Rock 2.0 can still be bringing in enough money to still be a thing in this day and age. I don’t use the words “I can’t even” lightly, but holy shit, guys, I can’t even.

At least the original pets were kind of cute. A leafy green sheep, a verdant fluffy dog? How could you not find those at least somewhat endearing?

Except apparently they don’t do cute animals anymore. You know what they do do?

Chia Emojis.
Chia Duck Dynasty.
CHIA GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING DONALD TRUMP.

And these idiot zombies.

Stop the planet, I want to get off.
I said STOP!
…it’s not stopping.
Fuck it, guess we’ll just have to soldier on.

Awful choice of subject matter aside (why Trump, Chia, WHYYYY?), it pains me how lazy these bastards have gotten with their design concepts. I mean, the whole point of stuff like the Chia puppy and the Chia head was that the ensuing greenery resembled quirky fur or hair.

Meanwhile, the designers of Dragging Drew and Restless Arm up there have oh so ingeniously used their employer’s trademark vegetation to represent…vegetation.

Gimme a minute, I don’t know if my brain is ready for that kind of in-depth visual mind-fuckery.

And there’s another thing; why do Dragging Drew and Creepy Holden get actual people names, but Restless Arm is just Restless Arm?

That arm belonged to someone, man. Whether it’s a grotesquely severed B-movie casualty in its own right or still attached to a body that’s frantically scrabbling to dig itself out, this is a piece of a person we’re talking about here, and it deserves to be honored as such. Even Thing from the Addams Family had a proper name, for god’s sake.

I’m gonna rechristen Restless Arm. Henceforth, he shall be known as Grabby Gary. Don’t you let your creators’ ableism get you down, Gary. You do you.

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NanoPoblano, Day 30: Where Fifty gets his Shades, maybe.

I really don’t understand the decorating aesthetic of boutique eyeglass shops. At all. I mean, I’m talking complete and utter bemusement here. Is it a Vancouver thing? Is it a city bylaw that if you’re a trendy little eyewear shop, you have to design your window display to be maximally incomprehensible and 100% unrelated to the services you provide?

Because these stores, without fail, have the weirdest shit in their windows year-round. Sometimes it takes me a full minute of staring from the sidewalk just to realize what the store’s meant to be selling.

Exhibit A:

The needle on my WTF Meter just screamed and broke off.

Pop quiz! You’re walking down the street and catch a quick glimpse of Fifty Shades of Hipster here out of the corner of your eye.

Do you

a) recoil because AAAaaAAaaaAGH CREEPY YARN MAN,
b) assume the store either sells knitting supplies or is owned by cats,
c) start getting ideas on how to spice things up a bit in the bedroom,
d) feel a wave of inferiority because Creepy Yarn Man has a better mustache than you,
or
e) immediately recognize that of course this is an eyeglass shop, Nutty, DUH, and decide on the spot that anyone who comes up with a window display like this must be without question the best candidate with whom to entrust the continued health and well-being of your eyes and vision.

I wonder if the store’s in-house opticians ever question their life choices on their way in to work.

Because no offense to them, but no matter how qualified and professional you might be, I’m not coming to you for a contact lens fitting if I feel like I need to have two infinity scarves on and a safe word ready just to walk through your door.

Even if Creepy Yarn Guy’s mustache is positively fabulous.

7 Things I Hate About You

You.

YOU.

You don’t know me, but I hate you.

Don’t look at me like that. You know what you did.

You did it deliberately, too. You did all of it on purpose. And I bet you’re not even sorry.

How do you sleep at night?

Probably better than me, that’s for sure. You made this bed, but I’m the one that has to lie in it.

I just want to know why. Can you at least give me that? Were you drugged? Were you drunk? Were you blind?

WHAT DID OUR APARTMENT EVER DO TO YOU?!?
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