To quote my daughter, “I’m getting really freaked out here.”
It’s late. It’s quiet. Except for my dog, going nuts at things I don’t hear. And the occasional rattle and thump on the roof. Cats, I tell myself. They climb the tree and chase each other on the roof.
But I’ve seen Signs. And my radio is acting up. And though I’m a thirtysomething, perfectly sane, practical adult, I’m freaked out. Not to the point of running, screaming, or dragging my daughter to a non-existent basement. Just really uncomfortable.
So I have my water-mister close to hand. Can you say “quick-draw?” You want me, Mr. Alien, you’re going to have to pay the piper.
God, I’m so weird. But I saw the pictures of the UFOs over Mexico. Anybody else remember where they saw the UFOs in Signs? Hey, at least I haven’t raided the aluminum foil. Yet.
I am, by the way, sane. I have proof–I have my psych eval, finally. It only took a month and a half to go from doctor to case worker to lawyer to me. What do you expect? It’s not like we live in the age of instant communications. But I’m sane. Completely. “Naively hopeful,” supposedly, but sane.
No, I haven’t made any progress on my book. Haven’t you been paying attention? We’re getting invaded by aliens here!