Possum On The Side Of The Road

Honestly, I'm a little superstitious. It's not as if I'm that way about everything...just some things. But, well, my little quirks and other customarily incorporeal palisades aren't of the, err, usual variety. Par exemple, when I put something in the microwave, I always make sure that the time I punch in is a multiple of six (it's my favorite number). If that doesn't work out, or I think one of the six multiples I want to put in might be either not enough or too much time, I put it in flat-out minutes. Similarly, when I turn up the volume on the TV, it always has to be on an even number. I keep pennies in all four corners of my bedroom, blow a kiss to every cardinal that comes my way, and I've always made sure that I never sit directly in front of the table corner, even if it's really crowded and there's nowhere else for me to sit (personally, I'd rather stand). Why am I telling you this? Well, there're a couple of reasons. For now, though, don't fret too much over it. It'll all start fitting together in just a bit. You'll see.

Here’s the thing: I don’t like seeing a dead possum on the side of the road. And if I don’t like seeing them there, then, logically, I really wouldn’t like almost tripping over one in the mall parking as I’m stepping out of the car. Z doesn’t seem to get that. Thus, I found myself forced to delve into my instinctual avoidance of the creepy, beady-eyed creatures. Of course, he thought it was funny. (What else is new?) Finally, after a rather lengthy bout of uncomfortable silence, I informed him that I sincerely hoped this wasn’t some sort of presage for how he’s going to react every time I attempt to have a somewhat mature conversation with him.

And that was the end of that.

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