Every time I start congratulating myself for being clever clever clever, it always, always, turns out that I’m not.
And yet I keep convincing myself that I am (further evidence I’m wrong).
I had this vision of, oh, I don’t know, cranking up the heat in a couple of hours to produce a sweltering furnace of a room that no stage of moth could survive. Here I must point out that I could find no evidence of moths anywhere–but I’m like a freaking dog with a bone when I get a notion.
A really dumb dog with a gross rancid bone that’s probably going to make it throw up all over the carpet.
I thought I’d put in a couple of space heaters, and by nightfall, I’d be standing in a sauna, tossing back my head with an evil laugh, arms outstretched in a gesture of extravagant victory, sneering at any stupid, stupid eggs that would dare enter the realm of such a genius.
But instead, it’s like 95 in there, and the stronger heater won’t even run because it has a thermostat that makes it go off when it hits 90.
And I’m that big dummy again who can’t understand why her egg always breaks in the egg drop.
You know that Simpsons where they go to Itchy and Scratchyland? The parade of robots marches by and one of them opens up his head to reveal all the circuits and wires and Marge says “Look, Homer! You see all that stuff in there? That’s why your robots never worked!” I’m building robots with Homer.
I’m going to go knit something really simple and try to pretend I’m not a complete double lame-o donkey dick. Watch me fuck that up, too.