On my forehead.
It must be.
Don’t you see it?
Waddayamean, “what sign”?
The one that reads – only batshit crazy need approach.
Then how do you explain my penchant for attracting batshit crazy?
Like the woman at the resale shop last week who told me all about her promiscous, f-bomb dropping, 27-yr. old crackhead niece and her equally f-bomb dropping 3-yr. old grand-niece?
And it took about five minutes for me to get a complete rundown of the situation.
All the while batshit was…well, twitchy…like she had ants crawling all over her.
Then, just when I’d given up all hope of leaving the store with my sanity intact, she walked me up to the register to check out.
Here’s how batshit does math.
“Okay, so that’s $5 for the toy, $4 for the backpack, and then $5 for the Nike t-shirt and $2 for the sweatpants, right?”
“Hmm..mmm” I said, trying not to make eye contact lest I get sucked back in.
She taps the numbers out on the register.
“That comes to $11 and then there’s the 20% discount and add tax and you get $9.18. Wait, that’s not right is it?”
Nope, it’s $16 minus the 20% which would make it $12.80 plus tax…but…oh no, I’m not answering any questions – so I smiled at her.
“I’ll just do it the old fashioned way, on paper.”
She proceeds to write down all the numbers and total them up.
“Huh..well, I guess $11 is right. Should trust the machine, shouldn’t I.”
I smile again, figuring if batshit can’t do math then that’s fine by me…and yet I’m left wondering how batshit managed to a) hit the wrong keys on the register and b) get the same wrong answer on her notepad.
Apparently weasel algebra or cat math is involved in batshit crazy. Either way, I don’t want to know.