The cockroach lore thrives.

It started out innocent enough, us (meaning my mom, my dad and myself)  hanging in the living room, shooting the breeze, chewing the fat, or any other cliches that are relevant to passing the time.  Before I could prepare myself next thing I know the conversation dove into a realm of such serious nature never dared breathed before.  My parents,  normally sane adult individuals, began sprouting off post apocalypic predictions like prophets, each one drastically expounding upon the next.  Stories of cockroaches mutated through exposure to nuclear residue that exact revenge upon the remaining humans for crimes done to their kinds by our hands.  Lore spun with images of war, enslavement and the consumption of human flesh in a world where the food chain is flipped upside down and then vomitted on.  Tales that make zombies look like kittens and makes the movie Independence Day look like child's play.  All hope is lost.

I darenot let the words of these vivid and horrific stories pass my lips. I don't speak now to try and frighten you but in order to warn you so you can better prepare yourself for the evitable that is to come.

Remember, they are watching.

The toaster scares me, every single time.

Wake up in the morning, not feeling like P Diddy because I'm not sure what that even means, and slide two pieces of wheat bread into the designated toaster slots.  And I wait, drumming a cadence on the counter top or finish frying an egg to accompany my breakfast feast of carbohydrates.  But no matter which one it is, as I sit in this pocket of eternal waiting or even reach for the lever to persuade them that they're done already, a massive explosion of nicely browned bread comes from the little white electronic device thus making me jump.

After two weeks back you would think I'd have gotten used to it by now.  I would like to blame the past four months of working with a toaster oven instead, but I don't think that machine needs that much credit.  It always dinged really loudly and you had to continuously watch your toast because you turned your back for a moment it would seek revenge and deliver a charring sucker punch to your prospective toast into ashes.  Not that I don't mind a bit of good soot every once in a while, but only on the very rare, very special occasions.  Anyway, enough with this tangent.

It could be because I don't have any faith in the said toaster, and for those of you who are scratching their heads like monkeys and exchanging puzzled expressions like trading cards, let me explain.  At one point in my adolescence faith was once explained to be via the metaphor of a toaster because you know, without any doubt, that the toast is going to pop up. You have faith the bread will become toast and come out. With this nugget of knowledge, it can be assessed that since the toaster surprises me, I, somehow, did not know the toast was going to pop up meaning I do not have faith in my toaster.  Maybe the toaster is so keenly aware of my lack of faith in it and now proceeds to exact vengence on me.

Hmmm, I might have gone a bit too far. :D  Maybe I will just have to trust that someday the toaster and I will be reconciled.  Until then....

The barefeet reign.

I have self diagnosed my feet of having claustrophobia, but instead of combating it with necessity and proper etiquette, I indulge them. Even in the cold winter months I kick off my shoes and socks, so you can about imagine how far my pampering can go in these beautiful summer months, surrounded by lush green grass and yellow dandylions.  My feet run around like those children saying "Na na, na na na!" who have no pants on with their mothers chasing them. My unclad feet even creep their way into my dreams, and I traversed through my hodge-podge dream world of Florence, Mecca, soccer fields with thorn hedges, and British Army men from WWI sitting in metal bleachers (yeah, I'm not sure where they came from either).

Now as all the shrinks are writhing in pain at my seemingly self destructive indulgence of my phobic feet, I have to confess I still adhere to most of the social feet norms, though I did seriously consider not wearing shoes to church.  But it's just that here it means more.  Standing amongst thousands of blades of grass under the swaying, creaking tree boughs, the wind gently brushing the exposed skin of my flesh wrapped tarsals, I can feel the summers of my childhood.  Memories of laughing and playing, swinging on our rusting swing set, running through the laundry on the clothesline.  Games of basketball and catching fireflies.  Climbing trees and trying not to break anything else in the house.  The wet noses of calves and a soft kitten you can call your own.  The times when the world was good and you believed in those moments that everyone was in harmony, feeling the joy you felt in your entire being, making the air you breathe taste sweeter.

So I shed the laced bondage of my feet wear and remember the goodness in this world.

The sneezes are.

 Upon dividing up the seven dwarves, I am almost always Sneezy (unless my brother Anthony is involved to whom I then come to a close second).  No one wants to be Sneezy.  Everyone wants to be Doc, or Grumpy, someone with a little more screen time that actually has a well rounded character.  Or even Dopey because he's just so gosh darn cute. But never Sneezy. 

Yet I am usually thusly dubbed, due to numerous airborne pathogens or other unforeseen enemies whose alliances I am not privy to that ail my immune system, or at the very least my sinuses, causing my body to believe a constant state of congestion is its stasis.  And I smile and take my title, brandishing it with pride while deep inside wishing I could be another, like Sleepy - at least he gets to have dreams.  And though this last semester I did have my bouts with whatever it is that makes my sinuses decide to have a snot party, I thought I was, comparatively, out of the clear, almost to a point of congestive normalcy.   I could breathe through my nose, I wasn't constantly weighted down by a box of tissues or a roll of toilet paper, and my life was all rainbows and sunshine.

Then I come home.  After being abroad, I am warmly greeted with large, loving embraces by my mom, my dad, and a wave of dust.  This fiend is accumulated from the remodeling project my dad is finishing up - which my only allowance for disclosure is "It's coming along.  It's in progress."  But I would not let it get the better of me, so with a box of tissues in one hand and bottle of Pledge with dust rag in the other, I counter attacked.  No surface was safe from me.  No bed sheets were clear from my judgment and conviction.  No carpet was saved from Chester the vacuum (who I've named only for purpose of this blog, having a name makes him seem fiercer).  And no hardwood floor could escape my swifter.  I was going to be the sole victor in my genocidal war against dust.

I have not been without my losses.  Many a good tissues have sacrificed their short, predetermined lives for the sanctity of my nose.  But they will not be forgotten.  Upon their lives I build a brighter tomorrow and a larger compost pile due to their biodegradability.  From dust were we made, and dust we will be.

That is, until I get through with them.