now look, beatrice, i said mondays, wednesdays and fridays; i didn't specify time.
anyway. my pspoftw.
thing is, for the longest time i had this fear that every time i opened a cubicle door in a public restroom i would find a dead person on the floor in a pool of their own blood; wrists slit and hair manky from stale sweat and matted adrenline, alabaster skin drained to blue...
dunno where i got that from.
but i can tell you, google was no help in trying to find any kind of pic that even closely resembled that image. sucks.
i typed in 'dead person toilet' and got this. wtf?
speaking of blood, i'm busy with wednesday's column. also, i'm hiding in my room while Miss K is in the lounge writhing on the couch with a tummy bug. i'd like to think its that and not the baby tatsoi i made for dinner that she just vomited up.
i. said. i. don't. eat. leaves. god.dammit.
it's kinda cool have flat mates again (her current is an italian health nut who insists on talking to me when i'm occupied with matters of monumental importance, like watching the final episode of momma's boys.)
they leave soon for bella italia. oh well. onward with the column. oao plums.