It's dark in here. And cold and something just brushed against my arm. Lisa swears she felt a spider drop on her head and she's frantically shaking out her hair while sobbing uncontrollably. She asks me if I see it and I pretend to look but really just look away instead. She maneuvers herself into the fetal position and starts rocking while I shiver in the damp corner of our cell. I ask her if she thought to bring a jacket or a blanket or even a sweatshirt and she ignores me, pulling her dingy I-was-once-bright-white-but-now-I'm-sad-grey robe tighter. And then we're crying again, wondering when our next meal will be. Lisa clasps her fingers around her bony wrist, big, sad eyes pleading to make it stop. I shake my fist at the pure, unholy madness of our situation before dropping to the damp floor on bloodied knees.
Actually...I'm on my couch. But I haven't showered and I see a spider on the ceiling. And Lisa is wearing that robe. And crying intermittently.
We will most likely be wallowing in this bottomless pool of desperate suckiness for at least two weeks.
Although Lisa is still making time to stalk Zillow and pin random decor ideas for her dream house on Pinterest. Go figure.
Anyway, we'll be back to our semi-regularly programmed nonsense as soon as we claw our way out. If you never hear from us again one of two things has happened:
1. Lisa finally sold her house and has quit writing to focus solely on her second career watching HGTV and performing half assed DIY jobs.
2. We got hungry in the pit of despair and ate each other.
Either way, don't waste any tears on us. We'll be in a better place.