Sunday

Would you like to guess what we're looking at here, reader? Click on the image for a larger view if you need one, but I knew as soon as I stepped into this room: there was a snake on the windowsill, and it was inside the insect screen (one of the few insect screens on any window in this house that actually has no holes in it). That snake was right here in this room. Bloody hell! Bloody bloody hell!

I was walking in here to close the window because it had just started raining, and thank God it had, because otherwise I wouldn't have walked into this room to close the window, and that snake would now be somewhere in this room without me knowing about it.

It must have come through a hole in the bottom of the window frame (designed to let rainwater out, presumably), or maybe I just hadn't noticed the screen was loose at the side somewhere. It got in. That's the point. A fucking snake - another one - got into this room. My haven. My safe little island. The place I feel okay. Bloody hell.

I got the broom from the next room and hit the insect screen with it, and the screen just flew out (thank God), as did the poor little snake who seemed just as keen as I did for our meeting to end as soon as possible. Then I closed the window and cried. And then I started shaking and cursed my stupid fucking useless life wherein which I have to chase the snakes out of this fucking room and this fucking life on my own. Where is the justice? And why am I such a drama queen? Some things have no answers.

It was probably a harmless tree snake, and if you know different, I don't want to hear it. I'm almost certain it was a tree snake, and this is the third time in about as many weeks that I've seen it, though this is the first and hopefully last time it'll ever be in this room.

And so. The end. Was there any point to this story? No. Is there any point to my existence? No. Is there any point to any fucking thing? No. And yet it goes on. Boo fucking hoo. God, I hate snakes.