I take back everything I said about my four and half foot tall physical therapy chick, Lily. Because today I learned that she knows how to ring a chicken's neck. Any girl who can kill her own food is someone I want on my side. Because if worse comes to worse and we find ourselves facing end-of-civilization type circumstances, I'm gonna be fucked. There's no way I could kill a chicken and there's no way John could do it unless he accidentally tripped over it. So I'm either gonna have to depend on my fat, domesticated cats or get all buddy-buddy with tiny-Lily. The chicken choker.
What I'm reading: The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane by Katherine Howe. It's very, very good. In fact, I'm about to go shower and take said book to bed with me. John's gone to his first Dart-Ball game of the season. I'm home alone. It's so quiet I could weep with joy. I love him to death, but a girl needs a quiet house every now and again. Today I took a picture of goose poop in the parking lot at work and texted it to him with the oh so clever caption "Holy goose shit, Batman!!!". Three exclamation points, mind you. And he texted me back, "Goober?" which is what my mama calls peanuts. And upon closer inspection, it did indeed look like a peanut as much as it did goose poop. But before I could reply he texted me again, "Don't eat it, ok?". And I laughed like hell until I realized that he's to blame for my increasingly high-brow sense of humour.