I think something bit me last night. On the hand. It really itches like a mosquito bite, but the itch has lasted for several hours now and that's unusual for me.
Maybe I got into some poison ivy yesterday when I was out doing yard work. But I was wearing gloves.
Or maybe a bug from another dimension is eating its way into ours through my hand and any moment now some alien doodle bug is going to pop out of my skin that only Sigourney Weaver will be able to stop -- depending on residuals, sequel opportunities and a percentage of merchandising.
* * *
I'm writing this at 7 a.m. There's 21% battery left on my laptop, and, strangely enough, 21% left on my iPhone battery.
A sign of impending doom and destruction? The jury's still out.
But seeing that their battery lives are more than 75% used up, and MY life is probably 75% used up (depending on whether or not I forget to take the trash out again in the near future), I theorize that this universe may indeed be some kind of digital Alien-Nintendo simulation, and we are nothing more than pixels hopping about for the pleasure of a more-intelligent creature who's so addicted to the game he has to play it in secret because his wife thinks it's a waste of time, "and if you forget to vaporize the trash again this week, I'll vaporize your little game, bucko."
And we'd all be toast.
* * *
Somewhere in the neighborhood there's a truck backing up. How do I know this? Because it's "beep-beep-beep" beeping backup beepers are driving me the beep crazy.
I think it started around 6 a.m. And you tell me how someone can be backing up for an hour and...
Wait a minute. There's more than one of them. I can tell because one truck is beeping an E-flat, and the other is lower on a D-flat.
Funny, but the Mockingbird outside my window is whistling Rachmaninoff, another one is cooing on a G (as if he's about to warble out a "Swing Low" chorus), and some prop plane just flew over humming a low A.
And deep in the Perseus cluster of galaxies, 250 million light years from Earth, a supermassive black hole is pumping out a B-flat, a frequency 57 octaves lower than middle C.
It's a conspiracy, man. A conspiracy, I tell ya!
* * *
The morning sun is now coming through our front window.
I'm going to go pee, then have a cup of coffee.
Sooner or later I'll plug in all my electro-stuff so their batteries won't die.
I might do some yard work.
In the deep, icy ocean of Saturn's moon, Enceladus, an amoeba is back-stroking around a hydrothermal vent not worrying about life on other planets, alien invasions, taxes, religion, political instability, or whether or not his health insurance will be adequate in his old age.
He's naked, and enjoying just being alive.
As should we all.