Monday, October 24, 2011

This is why I can't have nice things

What I initially thought were marks from a kid's washable marker turned out be deep gouges from who knows what after closer inspection under better light.

GGGGGGGRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrr. . . .

Whomever coined the phrase "the pitter patter of little feet" with the notion of well behaved darlings frolicking around the house must have been high. My house is awash with the sounds of AAHHHHHGGGGG!!! THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUD-THUMP THUD-THUMP THUD-THUMP WHUMP-THUD-THUMP WHUMP-THUD-THUMP WUMP-THUD-THUMP AAAAAAHHHH WEEEEE AAAHHHGG!!! -- followed by the unmistakable sound of some object being smashed/thrown against the wall/hurled down the stairs.

My poor Oakley's. Its Achilles Heel was exploited by one of my children, whom I have to give some credit to for being able to destroy a pair of sunglasses that are basically indestructible. Then again, my father has told me more than once that when I was a kid, "[I] could fuck up an anvil with a rubber hammer."

The apples don't fall far from the tree.
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