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Day 5: In the words of Harvey Dent, “You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”

Day 5 of my Camp Nano project: Question of the Day. I’m enjoying this little project. I feel like it’s keeping my brain active, writing-wise without bogging it down in the details of all the things keeping me frustrated about the novel itself. So on to today’s question that I saw on Pinterest like 75 times so I have no original source. I think it’s one of those questions though, that manifested itself into being like a mist of self-reflection.

Do you consider yourself to be the hero or the villain of your own story?

source: Pinterest mist

I like this question because I think it’s the ultimate theme to my unfinished, above mentioned novel. Because everyone sees themselves as the hero, right? I mean, that’s what they say. Everyone identifies as the hero. But what if we’re wrong? What if we’ve burned every bridge in town for the dramatics, because we think we’re taking a stand against injustice, but maybe also because we’re leaving. Because if we don’t down burn all the bridges as we leave, we have to face the reality that we’re walking out alone. That life will go on exactly the same without us and not one person will notice.

I don’t know where I’m going with this exactly. I think that while we all identify with the hero, we’re all secretly scared we’re the villain. We’re so scared that someone will notice and call us out on our abhorrent morals so they can cast us as the new villain for the pitchforks of the community, that we are one accusing sounding question away from throwing the first stone. And regardless of all of it, I think if we’re trying to insert ourselves into the story in the first place, we’ve already chosen to be the villain whether we recognize it yet or not.

My son is the biggest Star Wars fan I’ve ever met and has been since he was about 4 or 5 years old. So, probably because I have had a Star Wars movie on in the background for the better part of 6 years now, I have noticed some things that parallel my current thoughts, so pardon my rudimentary Star Wars analogy that someone’s probably going to tell me I’m wrong about but, I don’t care. I can easily block out rude opinions on Star Wars so save your breath unless you genuinely want to have a proper discussion about Star Wars philosophy. Unless it’s about Jar Jar Binks. This is a Jar Jar Binks-free zone.

And, as you know, if you’ve ever taken Philosophy 101 or an English Lit class in college, Star Wars is an epic example of hero vs. villain and self-insertion into your own story. And if you haven’t seen Star Wars and don’t want spoilers, stop reading. Okay, so jedis, or is jedi already plural? I don’t know, I’m not going to look it up. But! The force finds them. They’re not trying to be heros, you know what I’m saying? They just are. They already have the force and instinctively use the force for good, like Obi Wan and Yoda* and Rey. I mean, Luke wasn’t looking for the force, he just wanted to go Tosche Station to pick up some power converters! but it found him anyway.

And then you have Anakin. I’m going pause here to deep sigh and eyeroll about how emotionally RIDICULOUS and DRAMATIC all Skywalker men are. And it’s specific to the male Skywalker gene. Anakin’s mom? Sacrificed herself for the betterment of her son; didn’t whine. Padme? Sacrificed herself for the betterment of whiny baby Anakin and baby Luke’s future; didn’t whine. Uncle Owen and Aunt Baru? Took in baby Luke only to be sassed at by him and his whining and then burned to their deaths; didn’t whine. Leia? A goddess; told everyone to stop whining. But the Skywalker men? Anakin, Luke, and the worst of them all, Kylo Ren? They all need naps and a reality check.

Now that that’s off my chest, where were we? Oh Anakin. Now, the force found him, same as it found Luke and Rey and the rest I imagine. Anakin wanted it too much, though. He wanted the fame and recognition and found himself burning in lava. Villain. Kylo Ren, wanted the fame and recognition, ended up gutting his dad. Villain. Also, both of them wanted to choke out Luke and I get that. I do. However, we let Luke live because he made better choices. Until he didn’t, and a Skywalker fit was thrown. And people died.

And here’s the point I’m trying to spit out. Everyone can be a hero, but when you start deciding that you need the recognition and the fame and all that for your heroic deeds, you’ve become the villain by default. Now, that doesn’t mean there isn’t redemption. Look at Anakin/Darth Vader. When he chose to help Luke rather than sacrifice him for the clout of it all, he hero’d out of his villainy. And then he died. And then was worshipped as a villain anyway. Karma, dude.

*Stop it now.

Day 4: The Bucket List

I woke up from a dream this morning and in it, a woman older than me was squatting down in front of a bench crying because she had just found out that she was dying in a couple of months or days or something and she goes, “Well, there’s 10 minutes of my life I wasted crying and I can’t get back,” and then she said she didn’t know what she wanted to do with the rest of her short life and asked me, if I found out I was dying in a couple months, or even weeks, what would I do? So I’m going to take this question from the dying lady with the messy hair from my dream and use it for today’s post.

If you found out you were dying in a month, what would you want to do with the rest of your life?

source: Dream Lady

Part of me would want to actually do all the things I’m afraid of, like camping and traveling and ordering a pizza over the phone and deleting Facebook and wearing a swimsuit in public. But then there’s the realistic part of me that thinks that things would probably stay the same. I’d probably sit around all day in my lounge pants watching stuff on tv like I Love Lucy and When Harry Met Sally while I scroll through the internet like I’m getting paid by the hour. And I’d probably still yell at the kids for fighting and the dog for barking and the cat for waking me up at 6am. And I most certainly wouldn’t clean anymore. I’d need to delete my internet history and probably go through my things and burn the diaries I wrote when I was 16 but kept so that my loved ones could find one day and publish them when I die once they realized the genius prose and intellect I exhibited at such a young age. Unappreciated in my own time, and all that. But here’s the thing, I read one of them about a month ago and spiraled into a week long depressive state of shame and embarrassment that anyone knew who I was at 16. So I’d burn those. I’d make a point of hanging out with as many friends as I could get to answer my texts, and then I’d drive to California and put my toes into the sand again and drink wine and talk about things that excited me with my friends and I’d go look at the Hollywood sign, I’d hike right up to it. Well, no, that’s a lie. I wouldn’t. Snakes and fear of the law would stop me. But I would go see it. And I would walk down Hollywood Blvd and still not make eye contact with the Superman and Miss Piggy (they’re not the real thing, don’t buy into their scams). And then I would go back to the beach again and put my feet in the sand. And I would close my eyes and listen to the waves and the seagulls that I’ll probably have to fight off later and I would feel the sun on my face. I would drink and laugh with my people again.

It sounds ridiculous and corny because the first thought I had when I thought about this bucket list question was traveling and seeing the world and all the stuff that people put on their lists, but I think that I would just live the life that I know. With the people that I know. And the places that I know. In my non-pants pants. I would hug my kids and my husband and my family and my friends. I would see and experience everything that makes me happy. Nothing new. No skydiving or roller coasters. No rock climbing or bungee jumping. No thrill seeking. I want to feel love and security and hugs. I want to talk about thoughts and ideas and jokes over candles and wine and brie. I want to sing and dance badly and laugh.

And yeah, if I found out I was dying, I would probably cry crouched on a bench with messy hair like dream lady. I would allow myself those 10 minutes. And who knows, in 30 or 40 years, I might have a different view on my life goals. And hopefully Dream Lady wasn’t giving me a death sentence, because jokes on her, I made a deal with the devil to live a million years so, sorry Dream Lady.

I don’t know how to end this because I feel like I’ve left us on a really strange note. This is way more serious than I ever want to be and that’s as embarrassing as my 16 year old me journals. Go back and read this in glitter gel pen voice. And instead of this, I should’ve just finished my draft from yesterday about dogs and cats. So… I’m going to go drink a glass of rose’ and pretend this blog post doesn’t exist. Hug your people. Do what you love. Ignore what you don’t.

End scene.

If You Were In A Band…

Here we are, 4th of July and Day 2 of answering random questions I found on the internet, which, by the way, I take requests like a wedding dj if, you know, you had something you wanted my useless opinion on. Also, I just realized that by doing this here, I’m essentially doing Camp Nano in the open and that’s a fool’s game. So let’s strap on our patriotic clown wigs and get down to business.

 If You Were In A Band, What Kind Of Music Would You Play? And what would your band be called?

source: https://www.mantelligence.com/questions-to-ask/

I have actually been in several imaginary bands, thank you so this question is very near and dear to me. Back in the late 80s there was this tiny little group called New Kids on the Block. I practiced their dance moves in the backyard because I was going to become a member once they discovered how good I danced and sang and dressed, but then I would leave them once I found fame and then start my own group of girls who happened to all be 5’3 and we would be named Five Three. And then when we won our Grammy I would get into a fight with Axl Rose as I was accepting the award. This didn’t happen, probably because I’m too tall now.

Then when I was 18 or 19 or maybe 20, I had become obsessed with weezer and also a bit later, The Beatles. So now I am forced by the laws of music to be in a four piece girl band. Also, the ouija board told us to. We think it might’ve been John Lennon’s ghost because the spirits said it was and also he told us Timothy Leary was going to die the day before he died so either one of us was a liar cheat who also was a really good fortune teller, or it was John Lennon. And if John Lennon tells you via ouija board in a haunted apartment in Denver, Colorado to be in a four piece girl band, well, you do that. So my friends Vicki and Michelle and I get instruments we don’t know how to play and start learning the opening notes of The Sweater Song. Michelle was on drums so she had that first part easy. Vicki was on bass and actually practiced and learned a bunch of stuff. I was on guitar and I put a lot of cute stickers on my guitar and picked out a fancy guitar strap. I think we named ourselves Help after the Beatles movie and so, as you can tell, we were on track to stardom. Only problem, there were three of us. We needed a fourth. Like in The Craft.

One day, ouija board John Lennon told us to go to a place called Annie’s Cafe on 8th at exactly 11am. We had no idea where Annie’s was but we found it however you found things before the internet was real and useful and more than chat boards for fandom and we went and it was a cute little 50’s diner and at exactly 11am, Help! the song played on the speaker system and a girl around our age with red hair french braided into two braids came and took our order. And then as the rest of the Help! album played and we ate our home fries and eggs and toast, we tried to figure out how we tell our waitress that she’s now in a band with us because John Lennon told us to meet her here and Help! was on and it was a sign that it was supposed to happen. We were so nervous we couldn’t even ask her for a refill on our coffees. She probably asked her manager for an escort to her car after her shift. We paid our check and left, knowing we had let John Lennon down and not only him, but the entire girl band actually. I mentally vowed to go back to Annie’s the next weekend and hunt this girl down and make her be friends with us. I never did. And it’s probably a good thing because in retrospect, that would be kind of creepy of me.

Since we couldn’t talk to our fourth, we had to break up and then reband as a new and improved band. Like girl weezer. My friend Vicki (Matt) and Michelle (Pat) and I (Rivers) somehow, and probably without mentioning the ouija board of secrets, convinced our other friend, Jenny into being our Brian Bell. We decided our name should be Manhands because of the bizarro episode of Seinfeld. We were going to be the bizarro weezer even down to the M being an upside down W. Clever right? And just like weezer, we had to move to Los Angeles in order to be successful. But we needed to consult the universe. So one day when Vicki and I were walking through campus, we asked out to the winds, “John? Should we move to LA? If yes, play something on the radio that would give us a clue.” Then when we got into the car and turned on the radio. California Dreamin’ was on. Sign. So despite none of us actually having ever been to LA we got rid of almost everything we owned, packed the rest up in the back of my Honda CRX and somehow landed in Studio City, California. Needless to say, I’m not a rockstar. And no, I still can’t play the guitar. This is not likely to have contributed to our success in anyway though. It’s because Michelle didn’t move with us. We had to be a four piece.

Questions I Found on the Internet (AKA Avoiding Camp Nano)

July 3rd and I’m on Day 3 of avoiding my NanoWriMo Camp. As you do. But I did consider writing today, and I promise myself and my camp I will work on my never ending novel this afternoon, but I have decided to brush off the old blog before I do because, you know, procrastination.

Also as a side note that bears mentioning but is in no way related, I haven’t written a post in so long, everything here is different. I don’t know what all these changes are to wordpress so I’m probably doing this wrong. I mean, I was doing it wrong before but now I can blame it on my inability to understand change.

Anyway, so in looking through my mess of notes for the novel I’ve been trying to perfect for years that is essentially just several badly named and organised google docs, I came across a list of random questions that I had saved long ago to maybe use as character prompts or scene prompts and I thought they would be fun to do as blog posts while I’m hiding from my novel, but I just realized that if I do these, I’m actually working on my novel, which YAY!! But that also means that now that I’ve made the connection, I’ll probably ditch this project in a few days soon as well. But this is a good idea because while a lot of these probably won’t actually make it into the story, they will definitely be good jumping off points.

On to it! Question of the day is:

Do you ever doubt the existence of people other than you?

source: someone somewhere on tumblr

I think everyone has at some point. Like I think that’s a philosophical bullet point everyone hits eventually. Like the time I thought I was a horse in a human suit in 3rd grade and then made an invisible trap in a tree to catch mean kids at recess. I mean, that’s totally normal kid activity.

And then there was middle school which we called junior high back then but no one says that anymore around here now so this is also another thing I may have imagined, anyway, I remember thinking that everyone was in on a joke that I didn’t know. And they were playing a game with me to see how far I would go before they broke me and could point and laugh at me. Like, the whole school was in on this inside scam to make me look foolish and I thought I could trick them because I figured out the joke. But I couldn’t figure out the joke, probably because in reality it didn’t exist. I don’t think. Because that would be a huge undertaking for a bunch of 12 year olds to plan and perfectly execute. I mean, right? This isn’t Carrie. Did I mention that I currently live with crippling anxiety?

And then when I got my driver’s license, I was so weirded out that I actually existed out on the road, like, other cars would have to actually stop if I had the right of way. And then I hoped they all saw me. That I really existed, they they actually could see me, and I wasn’t some ghost car traveling a deserted road at night in mist that local teens would warn each other about on sleepovers.

I don’t think I actually answered this question. Because as far as people not existing, I’m clearly more on the Bruce Willis end than the Haley Joel Osment end in this scenario. Spoiler Alert. If you don’t get the reference, don’t blame me if you google it.

So unless you mean like, ghosts, which yes, obviously I believe in them, then I’m not sure I have actually believed that other people didn’t exist. I mean I have wished for it. I’ve also wished that ghosts not exist, but that didn’t work out so well either and I ended up sleeping on a loveseat for a year so a ghost could have the bedroom.

Alright, off I go to work on the novel. Wish me luck.

Do I Have To Do This All Over Again?

If anyone knows me at all, they know that I own the entire Monkees tv series on VHS that I spent a ridiculous fortune on when I was dumb and broke and 20. Not only that, I own their tv special 33 1/3 Revolutions per Monkee AND two copies of their masterpiece movie, Head PLUS a whole bunch of embarrassing stuff they did in the 80s. All of it on VHS tapes that I still own and will not part with even though can’t even watch them because I haven’t owned a VCR in 15 years. Sorry, Marie Kondo, but they do kind of bring me joy. I think. Not as much as if could actually watch them…

The Monkees was my favorite show on television, being rerun on MTV everyday after school at 4pm. I didn’t know they were reruns and I was planning to move to some beach in Southern California and marry a 19 year old Davy Jones. And while all my friends were obsessed with Madonna and Michael Jackson, I was learning the dance moves to She Hangs Out (probably around the same time Axl Rose was) and my sister, Julie and our neighbor, Kelly and I would go out and perform the Monkees’ dances for no one using the wooden frame of the house being built next door to us as our grand stage. In fairness, this was the 80s and no one seemed really that concerned about a bunch of preteen girls at a construction site dancing to The Monkees on unsecured plywood resting precariously 15 feet above a concrete basement hole. With rusty nails.

Best summer on record.

July 7, 1987. I was 10 years old for another week and a half and in my second concert experience ever, The Monkees (minus Mike) descended upon Red Rocks Amphitheatre and my mind was BLOWN, not only because Weird Al opened the show, not only because they rolled out in a bed, but a lot because Davy wasn’t 19. Like, WHAT???? I had been lied to!

My obsession for the Monkees didn’t die, but my marital plans changed a smidge when I discovered the Coreys and I started writing variations of “Amy Haim” in glitter gel pens on all my Pee Chee folders. (Spoiler alert: That “marriage” didn’t work out so well either).

Okay, skip ahead 10 years, I own about half of my above-mentioned Monkees’ tapes. It was a subscription service so I spent a literal fortune and got sent to collection several times over, ruining my credit because I was broke and subscription services don’t care if you pay them or not. They will send you to collections, ruining your life in overdraft fees but will continue sending you tapes. Thank god. Anyway, in the middle of all of this financial ruin, I packed up everything I had (mostly just Monkees tapes) into the back of an ’85 CRX and moved to Los Angeles, California where I see an ad in the local paper that they need audience members for a video shoot mini-concert of the Monkees at Universal CityWalk. “No Pay, but you get to attend the mini-concert and potentially be seen on camera”. Heck yes! 20 year old me and about 50 other people that were at least twice my age stood in the hot sun while Micky told jokes and Mike still wasn’t there and they played 2 songs over and over and over again and then they were done. And it was AWESOME.

I met another Monkees’ friend, Vanessa and once a week for the next 20 years we would get together and gossip and eat Jack and the Box and binge Monkees’ episodes. And once we went and saw a showing of Head at El Capitan Theatre (I think?) and Micky Dolenz was there and for some reason I can’t remember if we met him or not. You’d think I would remember this, we were so close to him and he was in a white hat and I just can’t remember. It must be stress induced amnesia or something.

And then Davy died and I cried for like a week. Probably longer. My heart was broken and then I got irrationally angry at Mike Nesmith when he decided that maybe now he would like to rejoin the band. Too late, Mike. (Insert “Atta boy, Mike” gif). And I never went to see the Monkees in concert again.

At that point, I thought I had emotionally detached from anything current that came from The Monkees, finally. And then I went on twitter today and saw “Peter Tork” trending and my stomach sank. And my heart broke again.

So today I’m going to just listen to Monkees’ songs all day and watch my Monkees’ dvds (I only have the first season, which is upsetting and I need to fix that) and, I don’t know, cry and be completely unproductive.

Maybe I’ll fire up a dance routine.

RIP Peter.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

So, I’m sitting here on the couch, minding my own business, scrolling tumblr before it gets shut down, you know, as you do and an old timey bell rang from the direction of my Christmas tree like I’m George Bailey or more likely Frank Cross or some kind of nonsense.

I’m the only person home and the cat, who I had hoped was climbing the tree causing disturbance, is asleep in the other room like we don’t have a Poltergeist situation happening here.

I have no non-paranormal explanation for my tree to be ringing, oh my god, what do I do?? My first thought was to pull up one of my ghost apps, but upon further reflection, I don’t really want to be inviting ghosts in to talk to me at all hours. Like, just a little jingle and I don’t respond, maybe old ghosty there will get the hint, but if I actively engage, I’m opening a whole world of the underworld and I don’t know that I want that. I saw Ghostbusters, I know how this plays out. 

If I ignore it, will the ghost get the hint and go away? Or will I upset the ghost and cause ghost dramatics? I don’t need drama ghost. Is it trying to tell me to be nicer to people? Am I about to witness my future death and how no one will care? Or did an angel get its wings? Both?? I’m so confused. 

Maybe I get over my fear and use it to my advantage and start asking it questions like it’s a Magic 8 Ball. Will I win a whole bunch of money soon, tree ghost? Ring once for yes, twice for no….

This probably means a bad omen. I haven’t heard of good ghost omens, except maybe for the bell ringing bit at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life. I did hear a bell, so I will hold out hope until I’m ankle dragged down the hall in the middle of the night by a demon pretending to be a Magic 8 Ball angel. 

It could’ve also been the humidifier turning off. I hadn’t thought of that… 

Amy P.I.

I figured out what my dream job is. Old Timey Private Eye Detective. Like the kind that spied on people from a tree and then flashed a mirror to your partner in the ice cream truck down the street when the subject enters a building. You’d get your own office, your own cigar, your own voice-over. There’d be telling shadows, cool clothes, rain. My own jazzy theme song??? I hate the saxophone normally, but it’s essential to the overall scope of my vision, so, cue the saxophone emotive background music.

She smoothed her gladrags down her getaway sticks, and then lit a cigarette. As she opened her cherry stained lips from the kiss of her drag, smoke billowed underneath her large hat, hiding her cold and calculating eyes. I’m assuming her lips are cherry, but we’re in black and white so it’s hard to tell. 

A jalopy horn honked in the distance and some Hard Boiled started yelled obscenities into the night. The rain beat down harder on the window pane as the dame wiped potential lipstick off her front tooth with with her polished, manicured pinky finger. 

 “Look, I need you to do somethin’ for me.” She sat back on the corner of the desk and swung her long gam back and forth like a child’s swing. “I need you to get down to the bottom of some crimes,” she says.

She tosses a manilla envelope on to the desk with the ease and grace that comes from no longer caring. Or maybe caring too much. I’m intrigued by these crimes. Seeking out and solving mysteries is my passion. I pick up the envelope and she gives me a smile. The moody saxophone swells in the room as she takes another drag off her cigarette.  

Or maybe I’m not a P.I. from the 30s. Maybe I’m from the 80s and I get to solve some mystery art theft in a fancy suit with big feathered hair like on Moonlighting or Miami Vice or that movie with Renee Russo and the brown haired James Bond. Oh I like a good truth hunt in a smart, knee-length pastel, pencil skirt with matching shoulder-padded suit jacket. Someone is snorting cocaine as the happening saxophone wails on the yacht. Our attention is taken off the boat as a crocodile briefly chomps and trashes in the waters below. That doesn’t seem right but we’re going to go with it because I’m pretty sure I saw a crocodile snap in the Phil Collins episode of Miami Vice. 

No matter what it is, as long as there are shoulder pads, cool clothes, and a saxophone to dictate my moods, and mysteries to unearth, and some shenanigans for me to make fun of, I’m sold. 

NaNoWriMo: The Halfway point?

Today is the 20th. Way past midway at this point and I might hit 25,000 words of the 50,000 word goal today. I mean I should, but I’m in a slump of epic proportions. 

Did I mention that I’m doing NaNoWriMo this year??? I am. 

Okay, see, I’ve been “writing a book” since I don’t know, forever. It’s changed form and content over the years but the main character is the same. The voice is telling the same basic story. And everyone I know has encouraged me to friggin’ finish already. I was manhandled into NaNoWriMo this year, which I’ve been scared to participate in for ages because I didn’t know how the whole thing worked and I thought I was writing in public and the thought of a rough draft out in the word for everyone to read makes me want to hide in a cave forever and hope everyone forgets they ever knew me. BUT! It’s not like that. At all. And I’m so happy that I’m doing it. HOWEVER, I’m struggling to hit goal. I’m in my head too much and instead of contributing to my word count over there, I’m here whining about it in a blog post.

But this is the actual plan. I’m going to blog about the nonsense in my head, get it all out here so that I can go into my novel clear headed and maybe encouraged or something. I don’t know. Also it will hold me accountable if I’m blasting my embarrassing word counts here which as of this very minute is 24,373 words. Ugh. 

Are you participating in NaNoWriMo this year? How are you doing? Are you keeping up with your word counts? Are you suffering from a block because your story is supposed to be “satire/humor” and it’s the most boring story ever told? Like mine? 

If you want to be NaNo buddies, find me here. 

I Googled: Lifespan of a Squirrel

I did not like what I found.

I am in a continuous and contentious argument with a squirrel. Several times a day, he climbs up the back of my fence, perches himself on the corner post, yells at my cat, Marty, and then runs up the roof in a racket like he’s Chim Chim Cheree-ing up there with Dick Van Dyke. And I have had enough.

At first I thought the squirrel was cute, drinking from the birdbath, sunning himself on a rock, but as the summer months have turned into fall months, my indoor cat that likes to sun himself on the fenced-in patio (but only if the sliding door is left open) is obsessed with being outside now because of that menace squirrel, and it is chilly. And not in that Southern California fall way that I’m used to, where it’s like 68 degrees at 5 am and I might debate bringing a sweater to drop the kids off at school, no. It is currently 51 degrees outside at 10:45 am and I am chilly, and in several layers of clothes, and under a blanket and the cat is howling at the door to get out and yell at the squirrel. I don’t know how I’m going to survive the winter, to be honest.

All of this is fun and games but one major factor that plays into my squirrel feud is the potential for bloodshed. In all honesty, Marty is a scaredy cat chicken baby and probably won’t actually do anything but run if the squirrel got brave, HOWEVER, I can’t guarantee that and I am not cleaning up after any murders, I don’t want to touch a dead squirrel body, I wouldn’t even know where to dispose of a dead squirrel body so there’s that. And what if he didn’t kill the squirrel?? Then what do I do? Take the squirrel to a vet?? What if he bit me? What if he bites Marty? What if Marty gets rabies and I have to lock myself in the car and hope someone comes to rescue me? What if we both get rabies and we terrorize the town like zombies?

This is a real fear, not just “Amy’s overreacting again”. See, about 2 weeks ago I hear that squirrel doing that evil squirrel laugh that they do and I go out there to see him climbing down the fence slowly, looking right at Marty and he’s laughing at him. I go out and Marty runs in the house and that squirrel looks me in the eye, and goes, imagine a squirrel voice, he goes, “Hah!” right at me! I yelled, “Shoo!” cause I’m an old lady, and he didn’t move! He didn’t even break eye contact! I imagine this is what it was probably like in the Wild West just before a saloon fight broke out. So I did what any one of you would’ve done if you were looking down the nose of a brave squirrel. I ran as fast as I could back into the house and slammed the door. I lost a shoe and stubbed my toe and it’s that squirrel’s fault.

I’m pretty sure squirrels hibernate. I saw a Spongebob episode about it once. When do they do this? I’m a prisoner in my own home. That squirrel is going to come inside and then what do I do? He’s mad at me because I squirted him with a squirt gun the other day because he was teasing the cat again. He ran away the first couple times I had to squirt him, but the last time he looked at me and I think he was taking notes. So I googled how long these guys live. I need to know how long I have to look behind my back when I leave my front door. How long this squirrel has to plan an ambush.

10 years. Squirrels can harass people for 10 years! This is bad news. In other bad news, I also found out that they will take over a home and live in the walls. This isn’t your typical mouse or rat living in the walls that come out at night to eat your bread and poop in your cabinets. Squirrels are like little demons that laugh at you in the night and bite your face and give you rabies.

This is worse than that Cujo lady’s situation. Something must be done! I don’t want him to get swooped up by a hawk or anything, I just want him to go take a nap or something. He’s very aggressive and he’s crossed a lot of lines and it’s getting too chilly out to comfortably handle a squirt gun. I would imagine he would feel the same about this and yet, he’s out there now, cackling away, taunting and pestering.