Today, I tried to learn why the Ruskies are prepping to invade the Ukraine. Apparently, they don’t much cotton being surrounded by a bunch of NATO countries and want their influence or annexation there before the Ukraine can get in NATO. They don’t meet NATO democracy standards yet. I half paid attention to a Vox article.
In other Proxy War news, Google asked me to review Hooters.
Talked to a couple friends. One says I will surely meet an ignominious end if I go on vacation without a chaperone to a far off place with only strangers around. She had a vision and it was specific, not even knowing who I was going to visit. I really, really want to go somewhere, anywhere. Do people get murdered a lot in Vegas? (Actually they say it’s rather safe). If I got to have a good experience and at the end of it, I had a heart attack rather than come to a violent end, I wouldn’t mind so much. Maybe if I got there and was so happy that I would never be happy again, falling down an elevator shaft wouldn’t be horrible or a Cirque du Soleil performer breaks her fall on me but snaps my neck. But being attacked by someone and beat to death seems a bit not worth it. Maybe there are men there just waiting. As a female, one is raised to believe they’re everywhere just waiting to strike, but I imagine in such a giant place teeming with tourists, there are people who prey on them. And if I was alone in a strange place, with pathological shyness forcing me to always look away from people, they’d smell my weakness. I have been able to fake confidence on occasion in a situation or two when I HAD TO and I have an ability to shut off my emotions in situations where people would be upset because I’m always anxious anyway that when something happens outside of my normal purview, I just don’t have the sense to fear it because I’m busy in my own head worrying about something else.
The latest event that I should’ve cared about perhaps a little more than I did was a couple weeks ago when Norman Bates ordered Taco Bell.
“Why have a gated community when you can literally walk around the gate” I asked, as we drove into a swank neighborhood with a pretentious gate that had 3 ft gaps at its sides.
The fellow, Norman, began texting us as soon as we were in the neighborhood. Very friendly fellow, smiley faces and calling K. by her name in the texts. Twice he texted us not to knock on the door, but it was after midnight, so that’s pretty normal.
K. wound up calling Norman. He stated that yes, he saw us and we were at the right location, so K. left the bag on his porch. A few minutes later, we got a call back from Mr. Bates. “It’s not here, K.,” he said in a voice completely devoid of affect. “Come back and bring it to me.”
K. was officially creeped out. “Perhaps we left it on the wrong porch and we should go back, ” I said. “Maybe he’s autistic or schizophrenic? Maybe he’s just fucking with us, too.”
But no, K. was certain something was off. “Well, you could stay in the car and lock the doors. If something happens, just drive away and call 911,” I said, more afraid of a bad rating than being the first victim in this budget slasher film. Plus, I figured if he was a sex pest, he’d be less inclined to strike if K. sent Ugly Fat Friend #1 to retrieve Norman’s Taco Bell. It did occur to me that it could be someone just pretending to live there, but then ordering Uber Eats isn’t really anonymous much.
“I’m not going back,” K. announced. “If your instincts tell you something is wrong, you should always trust it.”
Maybe it was sneaking peeks at the gory photos in her homicide detective father’s briefcase as a child or the stranger who nearly did her a mischief in her 20s, but for whatever the reason, I will trust her judgement on that one.
Sorry, Norman. I hope you found your Taco Bell.