Happy Birthmonth, Bent Country

This blog turns one year old this month. Strange. I've been looking back at my early posts and they're a little weird. But then I looked at some of my more recent posts and, well, they're sometimes weird, too. Besides, I like weird.

There's a mouse or a rat or a something in my bedroom. I've only heard it, a scratching and small thumps from the corner. It could be a clawed snake or anything else for all I know. All night last night I was up and down, throwing random things within two to three feet of me into the corner – a small alarm clock, a pair of basketball shorts, something that felt like a hat but could have been anything. Basically, I spent most of the night tossing half-known objects at an unknown animal in the corner. I got up this morning and felt like I'd pitched fourteen innings for team Animal Planet. I'm tired and a little punchy.

One of the blog posts I scanned across earlier was from last year when my uncle was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by New Southerner. I read this and had to smile. It's a little cool, because a few days ago Emprise Review nominated my story "Go Get Your Honor" for a Pushcart. I haven't talked to him yet but I'm going to suggest we visit Food City later today and have them make us a Pushcart cake. Also, I'm going to suggest we refuse to explain to the bakery employees what a Pushcart is, that we just act very nervous and rush them, ringing the bell, asking for a time-frame on when this cake will be done. I'm going to suggest that we do this while pushing shopping carts back and forth in front of the display case, a little makeshift Pushcart Derby where we are trying to get around one another.

Lately I've been more and more tempted to open spam in my email inbox. They're getting good at this, or I'm just growing more pathetic by the hour. A few have been made to look as if one of my ex-wives (don't ask) sent the message. That's pretty good. Bravo, Spammer Nation.

I've rambled a little. Like I said. Punchy. But suffer me this day, friends. It is Sunday and, after all, I have a one-year-old to take care of.