I’m on drugs

A pen.

That’s all I needed.

I had been given a pile of papers to fill out for one of the kid’s schools (who can remember which one?–I only have 4) and all I needed was a stinkin’ pen. And perhaps a shot of tequila.

Can I sidetrack here for a minute?

(Keep in mind I’m high right now–I blame the organizers of the half marathon I ran on Sunday for my condition–Cuz if they hadn’t put on the race, I wouldn’t have run it and therefore wouldn’t have screwed up my knee–It’s always gotta be someone else’s fault–If you learn anything from me, let it be this–Find someone else to blame other than yourself–It’s a skill that comes in handy almost daily–And it makes you feel really good about yourself knowing you do no wrong)

That wasn’t the sidetrack. This is.

Why so much paperwork to fill out for school? We’re not new. We’ve been doing this for some time now. The children are the same. Their sex hasn’t changed, nor their birthday, and they still do not have gout. I don’t even know what gout is. How am I supposed to fill in that line? To me, gout sounds like the thug cousin to trout–with a full beard and a pair of brass knuckles. And still, we do not have.

Anyway, the filling out of paperwork gives me hives. Basically I’d rather just have another pap smear–even though I’m not due until next February. But if having another pap smear will eliminate the need for me to fill out forms for school, then sign me up.

So, these forms were thrust at me and I begrudgingly reached in my purse to fetch a pen, but not before sighing my disgust rather loudly–I live for the drama.

I searched everywhere inside my bag. No pen. But I did learn something about myself as I unsuccessfully groped the bottom of my purse. I have a lot of stupid shit in there–and some of it even scares me.

Anti-fungal cream.

Um, what? Why would I have that in my purse? I don’t have fungus. No sirree. I don’t know anyone in my family who would need anti-fungal cream. So why was it in there? Am I being punked?

It seems odd to me that I would have a large, nearly full, tube of cream that’s main function is to cure fungus. The whole thing creeped me out a little bit. But you know what? I put it back in my purse. Because I figure I might run into someone who has a need for anti-fungal cream and I would so be able to help him. (I say *him* because I assume no woman would ever admit to needing anti-fungal cream. Yeast infection anti-itch medicine? Yes. But anti-fungal cream? Hell to the no).

Canadian money.

Y’all, I haven’t been to Canada since 1999. And I’m pretty sure I got this particular bag I’m carrying two months ago. So why do I have Canadian dollars in a brand new bag? I don’t even know what Canadian money is called–that’s how much I know about Canada’s currency. And yet I have it, in my possession, like right now.

Headless Barbie Doll.

Nothing’s creepier than pulling a headless doll out of your purse. Trust me on this. She was clothed and even wearing shoes, but was very obviously missing her head.

I think someone is trying to send me a message.

I held up my purse then and thought, “Wait. Is this even MINE?”

Please don’t be mine. Please don’t be mine. I must have accidentally picked up someone else’s bag, right?

But you know what? It was mine.

I don’t know what’s going on, but I think maybe I shouldn’t take pain medication anymore. It’s making me paranoid. I think. I hope. Because if what I think is happening is really happening, then there’s a deranged Canadian out there putting weird shit in my purse–like anti-fungal cream and decapitated Barbie dolls.

He clearly wants me dead. (I say *he* because of what I said earlier–women don’t own anti-fungal cream, therefore wouldn’t have it to taunt me with)

Oh God. The story was supposed to be about me not being able to find a pen in my purse and instead went terribly wrong somewhere around the words *anti-fungal cream.*

To make a long story even longer… I borrowed a pen from the man sitting next to me.

GASP!

He totally looked Canadian.