Enough people have contacted me inquiring about whether I’m dead or alive that I suppose it’s time for an update.
I’m alive y’all.
But I did just move into a studio apartment in the back of someone’s woodshop in the middle of the woods (and mere steps from the log cabin my office is in). So there’s spotty cell coverage at best.
Living in a cabin in the woods was so not the plan. But since my parents are selling our house, I had to jump on the opportunity to rent this place so I won’t be homeless again when the house sells.
I’m so over being a transient that the woodshed gave me a sense of security and serenity. I mean what’s more rejuvenating than peace and quiet and pitch black nights and a close proximity to all the power tools needed to construct and defend a small fortress?
The other day I was dropping off some personal belongings (stilettos and beer) when I heard a THUNK behind me after shutting the door between my “apartment” and the rest of the woodshed. That THUNK was the sound of my door slam causing a rifle that had been hidden between the wall and the juke box to become dislodged and fall to the floor:
The gun that was dislodged when I shut my door
Upon (very carefully) returning the rifle to it’s hiding place, I discovered…another rifle.
On one hand, I’m unnerved by the fact that there are firearms and loads of ammunition within six inches of my door. On the other hand, there are no other people around and I’m not completely confident that my pepper spray would stop an axe murderer or large wild dog, so I’m weirdly comforted by the fact that I’m living adjacent to a small armory.
This ain’t Manhattan anymore.
The daytime isn’t so bad. I can literally roll out of bed and into work, which is desirable to me. And it’s really safer for everyone when my time operating a vehicle is minimized. You know me and cars.
Also, there are friendly country store patrons and woodshop workers loitering around to mingle with. Like earlier this week when I was getting dressed and an elderly man wandered into my apartment looking for someone named Spunky. (We later found Spunky, who was quite attractive and explained how my apartment used to be his workshop).
Fate could not have pushed me further from normalcy. If ever I was meant to write the next great shit-your-pants horror screenplay…this is it. Deliverance meets Lost meets Wrong Turn meets fucking Cujo. Gah.
More later, I’m off to commence my new nightly routine of engaging all of my security alarms and dousing the perimeter of the room with Raid Pest Killer spray.
