I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.

Let it be known that I have no qualms about sharing gum. And when I say "sharing gum" I don't mean opening a pack and giving everyone a piece (although, I have no qualms about doing this either). I mean sharing the same piece. Already chewed on.

I'm also okay with chewing a piece gum that is approximately four years old.

Nor does it bother me that I found said gum on the floor a car. Covered in dirt, dust bunnies, and a piece of hair.

I mean, it was still wrapped.

However, this kid I know, also the driver of the car and possible owner of the old-ish gum, does have a problem with chewing ancient gum.

A problem and an incredibly sensitive gag reflex.

So I'm trying not eat weird stuff while he's driving. You know, so we don't die when he up-chucks all over the steering wheel.

For those of you who are wondering how I can manage to share gum and chew weirdly hard and tasteless gum that I found, but cannot go for more than twenty minutes without washing my hands: I never said I was consistent.

I'm aware that this is possibly gross. I also have no qualms about that.

Lying on the floor.

Clive has taken to chasing me. As a method of torture, I think, because he knows that I prefer to love him from a distance.

On Saturday night I had to scramble up onto our dining room table in order to evade him. He then proceeded to circle me like a shark, leaving me with no means to escape.

I cannot suppress a little scream every time he sneaks up on me.

Today was absolute insanity. He was pursuing me like never before. Running. Sliding. Jumping. Things would end badly. I could feel it. I felt it as I leapt over his wriggling body crouched before me. I felt it as I dashed to the kitchen with him on my tail (no, the irony is not lost on me). I felt it as I reached for a stool so as to fend him off.

Unfortunately, I tripped on said stool and somehow managed to ram it into our refrigerator with an ear-splitting crack, while also managing to do a half-somersault in the air, hit both of my knees on goodness knows what, and land on my back.

Things ended badly.

The good news is that the stool, in a twisted sort of way, achieved the desired effect. Clive was frightened by the sound and ran away. So I could lay on the floor in peace. Also, I wasn't seriously hurt. So I guess that's good news, as well.

And Melissa got a good laugh. After she was certain I was alright, anyway. Which was really nice of her, I thought.
Melissa: Are you okay?
Me: (between ragged laughter that could have be mistaken as sobbing) Yes, I'm fine.
Melissa: Are you sure? I thought that your face hit the fridge and made that sound.
Me: (more laughter) No, that was the stool. I'm okay.
Melissa: Are you sure? Because if you're not really hurt I'm going to start laughing now.

So my body is slightly more bruised, especially my knees, but that is nothing new, really. And I have learned a valuable lesson: clumsy people should not try to outrun dogs that are faster than them. Things will end badly no matter what. At least if you hold your ground and get taken out by the dog you look like slightly less of an idiot. You may even look a little bit brave. But by running and taking yourself out there is no red badge of courage, only the red of shame in your cheeks.

Lesson learned.

Distant dark places.

The power went out last night. And it was dark. The kind of dark where you cannot see a thing. Not your hand right in front of your face. That had never actually happened to me before. This kind of darkness. It was sort of spectacular.

Until I decided to brush my teeth before I went to bed. As soon as I walked into my bathroom with my dim little flashlight in hand and glanced into the mirror I became thoroughly freaked out. There is something fairly eerie about looking in the mirror in the mostly dark. Especially if you have played "Bloody Mary" at some point in your past.

So I made my sister, Meagan, stand in the bathroom with me whilst I polished my million dollar smile.

So I am a bit pathetic. And I am afraid of everything. And yet, still insanely awesome. And consistent.

So far around the bend.

Candy canes carry very positive associations for me.

So positive that I did a mini photo shoot with a candy cane and myself. I call this one "coy candy cane". Alliteration rules the world. That and boredom. Obviously.

Also, I very nearly tripped on a blind guy's cane this afternoon. He was tapping about and I just barely escaped with the help of some fancy footwork.

Call me now baby, I'd come a running.

I'm bad at games.

In my high school French class we would play "around the world" with French vocabulary. Whenever I knew the word I would of course have to gasp. By the time I had finished gasping the other person would usually have said the word.

Last night at family home evening we played "spaz". The person to get rid of all their cards first wins. I had most of the deck for most of the game. The saddest part was that Adam beat me, even after he took pity on me and took all but ten of my cards. Yes, the entire deck still ended in my hands. But a heart-felt "thank you" to Adam, for at least attempting to help me keep my dignity intact.

It's not just games. I am actually rather terrible at most things. Which is probably where the joke "the only thing Emily is good at is being bad at everything" originated. If nothing else I am very good at being bad at things. Which I think gives a little self-esteem boost to everyone else.

So if your self-esteem is ever lagging remember, I'm on call. I'll be there. For you.

And just in case you think I am throwing myself a pity-party, I'm really not. I like myself. A lot.

Clumsy is killing me.

I hit myself on the head with the ironing board this morning. Hard. As in I have a headache and there will probably be a bruise. It was nearly as bad as the time I pulled the iron down on top of myself.

Apparently my obsessive compulsive ironing is getting the better of me.

But neither of these occasions were as bad as the time I jabbed myself in the eye with the fire extinguisher.