Losing it with Limericks

Just as I predicted yesterday, today definitely started out with a lot more potential for enjoyment. Despite waking up with a start after dreaming that my father hacked a robber to death with a hatchet who had just minutes before been force feeding me Oberto pepperoni sticks (did you know those things are made out of PIG HEARTS????)I bounced out of bed with the fresh-faced optimism of someone who is either an appreciating recognizer of life's simplicities or severely bipolar. Even my tangerine body wash escaped my usual sarcastic regard at it's constant proselytizing to "waken and refresh" even the most narcoleptic of corporate minions. I even skipped my daily ritual of standing in front the mirror sans towel harshly addressing all the areas of possible improvement (I could totally be a commercial building contractor, it basically contains the same elements of employ) and threw on a wonderfully summery outfit that would reflect my ridiculously cheerful mood. In extreme contrast to my semi-manic state, Henry Nubbins was NOT in good spirits when I passed him on my way out the door. Apparently he went out with his buddies Bean and Wally last night and they hit it pretty hard.

While I could sympathize with his obvious misery, I have told him numerous times to steer clear of those boxers; they spend far too much time getting hammered and humping everything in sight. And while I've always had a sneaking suspicion that
H-Nubs was happily and obliviously asexual, it is incidents like these that make me think he's dangerously close to using substance abuse to erase the shame of losing his manhood to a crazy old British guy with a folding table and a rusty knife. I decided the issue would need to be addressed sometime in the near future, and gave him some ice cubes and his favorite stuffed tail from the raccoon he drew and quartered when he was 3 months old. In the meantime, my spirits continued to lift with the heavy Seattle fog on the way to work as I relished my new book (In the Woods by Tana French) and calmly resisted the urge to punch the guy next to me in the nuts for violating my personal space with his ever-spreading leg posture. I practically skipped off the platform onto the lower level elevator and made my way to the street entry escalator. And then I saw it. WE ARE SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE BUT THIS ESCALATOR IS UNDER REPAIR. PLEASE. USE. STAIRS. And in one dammit short of a shit, I was back on the guest list to Bitchy Bat Mitzvah at Cynical Square. WHY ME????? I was having such a Sex and the City morning, why did SJP in her cute pink tutu and catchy soundtrack have to be replaced by Andy McDowell in a cornicopia apron and an off-tune self-titled folk song about pie? Just to give a little background to all of you who are thinking I'm just a big old pile of sissy, the University Street metro station is REKNOWNED for it's mile long plummet into darkness on the escalator from hell, and naturally, what goes down, must come back up (not really, but what else can I possibly say?) You would be safe in assuming that it is possible to read the paper, eat half a bagel and dig through your purse/satchel for that missing lip gloss before you ever get to street level. So naturally, if the escalator is out of service, there is another option. A much less favorable option. The ever-frustrating limerick stairs. I seriously believe that King County Metro has come up with the best "green" weight loss solution that is not only super effective, but incredibly sneaky as well. On each step of approximately five billion stairs, exists three words to an apparent limerick. And you would think that you would gradually comprehend the entire verse as you gained altitude. You would be sadly (and I mean REALLy sad) mistaken. The higher you climb, the more nonsensical these collection of words become. So much so, that you find yourself going back down two stairs and up three more just to see if you can somehow, some way derive SOME sort of meaning out of it. And by the time you reach University Street, you have climbed 653 out of 208 stairs. And the son of a bitch still doesn't make a damn bit of sense. But does that stop you from doing it all over again the following morning? Nope. Not one damn bit. Because you KNOW that you can figure it out, if you just take a different approach, even if there is really only one approach available. And that approach is UP. So 3,000 calories, two sweaty armpits and four make-up reapplications later, I'm at my desk. Pissed. Right. Off. And then it hits me. That bastard Nubbins is going to have a way better day than me.