Hermithood and the Unlikely Stun Gun Incident

I have the most freakin’ awesome life ever. In the history of life, even. I get up at 4am (stop it, it is TOO awesome!) and have some coffee. I feed my fish and walk my dog. Then I go to my desk and work doing a job that I actually really like because I get to kill people without any fear of consequences other than realizing that I’ve already killed someone that way. Sometime around noon I eat lunch. Sometime when it looks darkish outside I eat dinner. Sometime around full-on advanced darkness, I go to bed.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Poop, my life sounds kind of pathetic when I get it all down in print like this.

So some time ago I decided that I needed to get out of the house more. I didn’t want to just go hang out in a random store and accost people with attempts at conversation, at least not after that time I tried it in the yeast infection treatment aisle. In my defense, I just didn’t happen to notice where we were standing at the time.

Long story short, I set out on a mission to do something different, but it had to be as interesting and awesome as my current job. Even better, rather than just meeting strangers for conversation, I wanted to do something with my powers, something that benefited society.

And that’s why I now sell stun guns for a living.

Just kidding. I now sell stun guns on the side, because my job is still really great. But stun guns are great too. See, here’s where you’re thinking, “Lorca, you’ve finally done it. You’ve finally damaged your liver to the point that it’s no longer filtering anything out of your bloodstream. You’re not even making sense.”

Yes I am! Making sense, I mean… AND filtering my blood!

I sell stun guns because who doesn’t need a great way to put a violent jerk on his butt? For those who aren’t sure they have it in them to zap a bad guy, I also sell pepper spray. The kubotans are really awesome, but if you can’t zap a guy, I’m guessing you’re not into stabby motions either. It’s all about knowing who you are as an assailant.

Anyway, you’ll be hearing lots more about stun guns and pepper spray and stabby motions and how to have an internet party, but in the meantime, if you’re interested in self-protection (and jumper cables!), comment below!

I Might Have to Plead the Fifth

Handcuffs...not the schmexy kind.

Good marriages are the kinds of relationships where there is open communication between spouses, and where both partners have a clear understanding of what each expects from the other. There aren’t many surprise problems in a good marriage, because the partners discuss issues well before they come up. By that definition, I do not have a good marriage.

For reasons I don’t have to tell you about because you’re not the boss of me, I recently had a discussion with my marriage partner about how we would pay for an attorney if I were ever on trial. For anything. And nothing in particular. The discussion quickly evolved into more of an argument, because my marriage partner is a cheapskate who doesn’t see the need for paying for an attorney when he clearly heard the policeman say that one would be provided for me.

ME: What if it was, like, hypothetically, first degree murder?

HIM: Why would you have murdered someone that seriously? Shouldn’t you get your feet wet with manslaughter and work your way up?

ME: Maybe someone broke in when you weren’t home and tried to hurt us. Would you pay for my lawyer then?

HIM: That’s self-defense, silly.

ME: Well, maybe I did a really thorough job killing him and it looked a little overboard.

HIM: Easy. Insanity plea. Did you remember to make it look like you ate part of him?

ME: Well, duh, of course I would. I’m just saying if it looked like I was a little vengeful, my craphead free attorney wouldn’t know what to do.

HIM: I’m sure it will be fine.

ME: Okay, what if I stole something and I’m not actually on trial for my life. Do I still have to take the guy who sold his soul to the Devil to pay for law school, or can I have my own lawyer?

HIM: If you stole something, you’ve got it coming. I recommend confessing.

ME: What if I stole something because we needed food? Hmm? What then, smart guy?

HIM: If we needed food badly enough for you to steal something, we probably can’t afford a lawyer then either.

ME: What if I’m actually FRAMED for murdering you because someone wanted us all to suffer? You would let our kids go to an orphanage while I’m serving twenty-to-life, all because my free lawyer couldn’t spring me?

HIM: How did I end up the dead guy in this scenario???

ME: Honey, whenever I envision going to jail for murder, you’re ALWAYS the dead guy. Remember that.

HIM: Can you please sign these legal documents?

ME: What are they?

HIM: Oh, nothing, just something I had my lawyer draw up.

ME: Holy crap! How come you get a lawyer and I have to take the free guy???

HIM: ‘Cause I’m the dead guy.

ME: They call the dead guy a “victim” on all the cop shows.

HIM: I know. I’m definitely the victim.

It kind of went downhill from there, but fortunately my husband has too much pride to press charges against me for domestic violence. He’d hate for the entire world to know that his wife wiped the floor with him. At least that’s how it all played out in my head. I lost interest in the whole conversation once I realized I wasn’t getting OJ’s legal dream team if I’m ever arrested. It just means I need to pay the Mob to do all my dirty work. Too bad there aren’t a lot of Pro bono Sopranos.