Returning to Twelve

My wife thinks I’m acting worse than a pre-teen me. And I have to agree with her on this one.

Hell, I don’t even care how this missive is received, jus’ as long as I’m doing something besides staring at the ceiling fan. Fan — short for fanatic and not fantastic!

I’m old enough to remember being on restriction for the entire summer, locked down in my bedroom with a radio and a set of encyclopedias. I read the entire effing set and was still bored shitless out of my mind. Not only did I read, but I also wrote as well as tried to teach myself to type on an old and broken typewriter my dad salvaged from the dump one day.

So yeah, with YouTube, Netflix and Amazon Prime viewing, either exhausted or found to be wanting, I’m out of options. Because of this, I’ve returned to my childhood ways: playing outside, running in and out of the house, leaving one or more doors open and complaining that I’m bored.

Now my wife his threatening to use her only wooden spoon on my ass if I don’t straighten up. And if she does end up using it, at least it’ll be something different from our generally TV/Internet laden day and evening.

Oh, and god-damn that refrigerator of ours and it’s continuous siren-song of fat-filled humming and buzzing. When the wife isn’t looking, I intend to drive a few metal screws into the doors and permanently seal its gaping maw shut.

The little bastard in me is on the loose, so get your son-of-a-bitchin’ spoon ready, hon!