I'm Not Crazy

~49~ Don't come around here no more Psycho Suzie

Hey! Don't come around here no more!
I don't feel you anymore
You darken my door
Whatever you're looking for
Don't come around here no more!

Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers - Don't Come Around Here No More ...

😈😈😈

Saturday ~July 20th

Sometime around the undogly hour of nine o'clock in the morning the front doorbell starts frantically ringing. Which in my book is way too early on a Saturday for doorbell ringing, frantically or otherwise. Also because so we don't exactly get a lot of visitors during normal visiting hours at the Crazy insane asylum, let alone this dogdamn early? Especially seeing that the Madhouse looks exactly like the sort of place that would give birth to an ax-murdering serial killer. Someone who you would definitely not want waking up early and extra pissed off.

So I am thinking that it has to be someone with suicidal tendencies, or at a minimum who doesn't fear death. Like one of the rare door-to-door Witness Women? Who every-so-often come to try to give the Crazy kids the good news and maybe borrow some more money? In another futile attempt to convert the savages to a more sober civilized diety. One who wants them to stop having Sex O'clock, drinking beer and watching football all day on Sunday, as if.

The one nice thing about the Witness Women is that they usually go away after the second or third attempt to get our attention goes unanswered. Or if Stevie opens up his bedroom balcony window unveils his H8TE rainbow rights pride flag to fly at them. Unfortunately for me, this one seems pretty damn intent on speaking to the local savages for some strange reason. As the front doorbell rings again and again ...and then again. After the fifth unanswered ring, now some rather insistently irritating knocking starts up. 

"What the holy hell are you doing banging on my door this dogdamn early?" I bellow back.

I grudgingly roll out from under the sheets and slip into my old Boston baseball jersey, which barely covers my butt now. So I pull on a loose pair of old boxers, just to be somewhat presentable, before I start screaming at whoever the hell is knocking at the door to get gone. I don't know what it is about my old boy boxers, but I love wearing these things for shorts in the summer. They are so comfortable in the heat and airy, but not in the same way that skirts are, which I absolutely loathe.  

"Oh no it's fucking fine! I'll go see who it is and tell them to leave us in pieces." I hit the hallway and head downstairs to deal with the moral majority. "Don't worry assholes, I'll get up and get the door. After all, being the lone little girl in the house full of big strong savages. So I should probably be the one to open the door for the crazed kid killer!" 

"You go girl..." comes Stevie muffled reply, from behind the door to his boy bordello bedroom.

The insistent knocking increases in tempo to the point of really starting to piss me off righteously. So before I hit the front door to meet and greet the Good News Witness Women, I snatch up Steve's bright pink iconic heirloom Hello Kitty baseball bat from the bat rack just in case. What I believe normal people would call an umbrella stand or something? But of course, in the Casa de Crazy, the bat rack holds all kind of deadly instruments. Like baseball bats, hockey sticks and the odd sharpened stake for one of those sparkle vampires who might come-a-calling to court Stevie. You know, in order to make just the Right/Wrong impression on any people stupid enough to ignore the obvious "Caution: Beware of Crazy" not welcoming doormat. 

Peering out through the ornate side window pane, it's immediately clear to me that I was way wrong on the identity of our early morning irritation. It is not in fact, one of the rare door to door Witness Women come to share the good news and borrow some more money for their zombie godling. Instead, it appears to be a bouncy bleach blonde Barbette standing on the doorstep looking all kinds of lost.