: this isn’t a life, it’s an arcade game :

Whack-a-mole, that’s what it is.


The second I get one catastrophe taken care of, boing, up pops another. Bigger. Meaner. And more destructive. This is monotonous, ladies and gentlemen. My arms are tired from the whacking and pounding. I need a break.

Remember that second part-time job I got? The one that means I can eat twice a day now? Well, guess what. Rumor has it they’re going to close the office. Gah! Why do I even get out of bed in the morning, right? There’s one very  simple, very compelling reason: to escape the screeching and snapping and splintering from my upstairs neighbor and her long-suffering recliner.

Oy. Shoot me now. I’m begging you.

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4 thoughts on “: this isn’t a life, it’s an arcade game :

    1. I bought a can of tennis balls, silk purse. Now when the noise starts I launch one at the ceiling. It’s fun and effective. I’ve gotten sleep 2 nights in a row. Yay!

      I like you, too :)


    1. You’ve no idea how often that thought crosses my mind, Len. I’ve also thought about restraints and/or pushing her out a window. I don’t think she’d fit, but I’d like to try.


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