There's a definite lack of chicken carcasses under the bed.

The other night I got into my car, put the key in the ignition and it blew up. No, I'm kidding (I know you were concerned, you probably had one hand on the phone getting ready to call me/911/moviefone to see if I'm ok and/or when that new Kevin Bacon movie is coming to a theatre near you. Well rest assured, I am fine/there IS no new Kevin Bacon movie). What really happened was I got in my car, turned it on, started driving and the most horrible thought popped into my head. I actually thought "man it would so suck right now if someone was in the back seat waiting to kill me and heard me singing along to this Whitney Houston song". Now a SANE paranoid schizophrenic might worry about the (non-existent) person trying to kill them. An INsane paranoid schizophrenic, though, worries about the (non-existent) potential murderer hearing her sing. To Whitney. Yeah. Clearly I have issues!

But anywayz, can I just say that generally I have never had the highest regard for the month of November? And now specifically I HATE you, November.
Really, really, potentially I hate you even more than I hate Luxembourg

(which I hate for many, many obvious and completely objective reasons, all of which I will not state in this particular post as I would simply be repeating myself I will not grant fucking Luxembourg the satisfaction. Screw you Luxembourg, you fuckwaffle!)

Really, I want to hire a hit man and have November taken out back and shot (I would do it myself, but that's just what November wants, for me to go to prison for 11th degree murder). Now that I think about it, maybe murder won't be necessary. Maybe what I will do is file a lawsuit against the month. God knows I at least deserve compensation for emotional damages. Even Johnny Cochran can't help you now, November!

Emotional Distress Endured At The Hands Of November:

-The depletion of all my brain cells (What else would cause me to misspell "Ark", and what's worse, try to cover up by attempting to convince the person I was using the French spelling?).

-Dreams in which Pauly Shore told me I expect too much, dogs ruled the world, and I was eaten alive by a large cotton candy cone. Or was it that a large cotton candy cone told me I expect too much, Pauly Shore ruled the world, and dogs ate me alive? I forget (see above depletion of brain cells).

-Leaves. Leaves in my hair, leaves in my pants (somehow), leaves everywhere.

-The progression of my case of Wanting What I Can't Have from mildly unpleasant yet entirely medicable condition to Hopeless Terminal Disease. The doctors have now ruled out any chance of recovery. I am doomed. Doomed, I tell you! And it's not even half over yet!
I'm thinking if I get a sympathetic jury I can get millions. Millions of what, I don't know. Calendars? For when they have to remake them all because not only did they reward me my emotional damages, but decided November was no longer fit to be one of our twelve precious months?! Who wants to be my attorney? I can pay you in yellow m&m's, murky water, and slabs of concrete.