I Always Figured that was more of a Wendy's Thing.

I'm normally not that squeamish. Honest. For example, three nights ago, there was a spider in my bed. It was significant enough, spider-size-wise, that it woke me up. I'm sure it was all ready to lay eggs in my nose or whatever, but I woke up and smashed it against the mattress. Still groggy and half-asleep, I managed to get the fitted sheet off my bed and onto the floor without actually getting out of bed, and without waking up Bandit. We slept the rest of the night folded in the little pita I fashioned from the remaining sheet, keeping us off the bare mattress. See? Not squeamish.

And last week, I watched The Ice Man Confessions, which is a documentary about this former mob hitman who killed over a hundred people. They detailed several of the hits, complete with autopsy and crime scene photos. I just sat there.

Tony Soprano's open gut-wound? Neat.

Whitney Houston's filthy bathroom? Bring it on.

But today, I found the line in the gross-out sand. I have reverted back to hyper-sensitivity. I was trying to eat a bowl of Berry Rice Krispies--which are awesome, by the way--and the gag reflex was in full-effect the entire time. I have washed my hands for no reason. I have done about ten involuntary, full-body shake/flinches (complete with cold chill 'boogida-boogida" noises). I think I might throw up.

I was walking Bandit about ten minutes ago, and on the path with the scary dog (which yesterday? Gate open. Bastard chased me.), near the convenience store that closed the other night while the clerk smoked a cigarette and I had to wait outside with him until he was finished so I could buy an apple juice (he said he'd put it out if I needed to use the bathroom, but otherwise, he'd just be a minute. It took him five at least, and dude made no small talk. Awkward.) right there, on the sidewalk:

A McDonald's cup. Full of needles.

Not sewing needles. Hypodermic. Okay, and it wasn't full of needles. There were two. I know what you're thinking: there were more than two needles in Whitney Houston's bathroom, and you've been showing that shit to everybody.

I think I may have dislocated Bandit's head or something. I pretty much dragged him home, not screaming, of course, but making that sound you might have made had you found that big-ass spider in your bed.

Note to self: wash sheets, brain.