I was on my way to work and I passed this guy with an adorable puppy dog. You know the kind of dog that makes your heart turn to a buttery goo behind your ribs and your ovaries explode with squee? That kind. But I'm wise to these dog owners. You can't let yourself be lulled by THE PUPPY because the guy with the leash is always a serial killer. Always. They just use the dogs as bait. Your first automatic reaction is: hey, he's got a cute doggie! He's a caretaking soul! A woobie! But in fact once you're in his apartment after the first date, he'll hack you to pieces and feed you to the dog, and the dog will gobble you up and wag its tail. Because it's a dog. They don't know better. "Here, Buster! Here's some liver!" I gave this guy a warning stare as I passed to let him know I was on to him. Then emitted tiny baby-coo-whimpers to the dog.
I wrapped a gift for someone in a hurry the other morning--you know who you are--and as soon as I was done with the ribbon, I panicked and thought: Oh god. What if I wrapped a pubic hair up in the gift? I mean. Don't get me wrong. My apartment isn't *strewn* with pubic hair or anything, but once this type of thought lodges in your head, it's there to stay. What if I'd picked one up on the edge of my shoe and then scratched my ankle and gotten it on my sleeve cuff, and transferred it to the gift, destined to horrify its recipient? Pubic hairs migrate. It's in their nature. What if one gets on your money and you hand it to a cashier? What if one gets paper-clipped into the report that you hand your manager? It took EVERY EFFORT OF WILL I OWN not to rip the package back open to check it. My friend hasn't mentioned pubic hair to me though, so I've tried to move on.
You know how in a movie they insinuate that some guy is the killer, and then he's cleared of all suspicion, and then at the end, OMG HE'S THE KILLER AFTER ALL! So if he wasn't a red herring, is he just a herring? I wonder about this.
Right now I'm listening to Evanescence's "My Immortal."