the worst . . .

. . . week ever. Included being sick, a bleeding bird, falling down a flight of stairs, and turning in my notice to my apartment. Hah! Take that apartment living! No longer will I be subjected to the randy behavior of my once-a-week neighbors. No longer will I be irritated at 3am by your cacophonous flow of inexplicable traffic past my window. No longer will I be subject to your domestic housecalls by burly police officers in triplicate. No longer will I suffer the neglect of beige carpet on my psyche. No longer!

Assuming, of course, that I get the house.

So the bird. Buddha picked a blood feather. He had blood dripping off his beak, all over his foot, and there it was, a huge (bird-sized) flow of blood on his wing. I, naturally, freaked. Called vet.

Me: My bird is bleeding!

Office Person: Do you have any corn starch?

Me: Who the hell cooks with corn starch these days?

Office Person: Better bring him down right now.

Once at vet's office, he'd stopped bleeding. Of course. He did get a nail trim though. Phoebe got a wing clipping. Vet told me not to worry about the feather plucking. Not much I can do about it, despite my new Bird Talk magazine that filled me with hope that one day little Timmy would walk again! No - wrong mag. One day little Buddha would let his feathers grow! What can I say? He likes the naked look.

Um, falling down the stairs. Yeah. I have the bruises to prove it. Not going into detail. I think I have told you too much already. Let's just say, it was through no fault of my own, and I wasn't drinking.

On top of being a bit under the weather, this has all basically served to reinforce my belief in long, extended vacations.

(All misspellings are the fault of Blogger. The button won't work. Figures.)