There is much weeping and gnashing of teeth in Fulmy-town today. I was almost two hours late for work this morning, and would have been later but for the intervention of a ringing phone.
It is entirely the fault of my muzzy brain -- when my alarm went off this morning, my brain said to me, "Oh, you silly thing, setting your alarm. Don't you remember that today is Saturday? Go back to sleep!" Generally I feel that I can rely on my brain to provide me with accurate information, but apparently that was not the case today. I am highly disappointed.
Last night, however, was a lovely outing. A friend I was in a play with last summer met me for dinner after work and brought along his fantastic new boyfriend. Normally I might have felt a bit jealous of the boyfriend, but as soon as we discovered that we a) are both Mac people, and b) both own a Macintosh Cube -- well, to be honest, there is no way I could have disliked him. Besides, he is just generally far too nice for me to work up any sort of lasting envy.
It has been brought to my attention that yesterday's entry may require clarification, particularly regarding that business with extra bits of that and additional pieces of the other. Here is the full skinny: I am a mutant. And someday -- someday soon -- I will rise up and crush this puny planet with my six-fingered grip, and stomp upon you "normals" with my six-toed tread.
Until that all happens, though, I should probably explain that extra fingers/toes run in my dad's family. Polydactyly, I believe it is called, and strangely enough, it is a dominant genetic trait -- just an easily masked one. It is fairly rare, but not rare enough that Buster Brown does not have special shoes made just for us little tykes who need extra space to accomodate our strange, mutant feet.
And to further put your minds at ease regarding my plans of world domination, I should also explain that all excess digits have been removed. The extra left-hand pinky-finger came off within days of birth (they tied a piece of string around it until it turned purple and fell off in what I can only assume is a medical procedure familiar to those doctors who discuss things like humours, vapours, and the benefits of a good leeching). The extra right-foot pinky-toe was apparently attached in a slightly different fashion, so it had to wait for actual surgery when I was a year or two old.
The reason I do not miss the toe is that I do not want to be confined to strange, unattractive orthopedic shoes. The reason I do miss the finger is I have convinced myself that were it still attached, I would be a piano virtuoso. There are special songs written specifically for those with polydactyly, with our superior reach and all that, that nobody else can play. I would have been famous and entranced audiences worldwide.
And then I would have enslaved them to my dominating, world-crushing will.