My mum dropped off to me yesterday some Stephen King books she had been given. I am a fan of Stephen King, however I'd say that I haven't even read half of his books. When I was younger I read a lot of the horror ones but I haven't even picked up one of his fantasy novels (The Dark Tower? Or am I confused?)
Anyhoo, I started reading Dolores Claiborne after she left, and in intermittent stages throughout the day, plus a midnight marathon, I finished it early this morning (bout two thirty I think). I liked the book, although I was expecting something more sinister. There wasn't anything supernatural at all, no monsters or demons, it wasn't really like the other books of his I'd read (Dark Half, Pet Semetary, Carrie, Firestarter to name a few).
However, having said that, there was one moment in the book when I felt a bit creeped out. The hand reaching up and grabbing Dolores' ankle didn't do it, nor did the hatchet scene, or the fact that Joe molests his daughter.
It was the dust bunnies.
The dust bunnies that Vera is terrified off, made me just a bit spooked too. Don't ask me why, but I'll never view vacuuming the same way again.
Moving on. Boo and I had another one of our chatathons on Friday night, which didn't last quiet as long as our previous one, but it was still three and a half hours long. During this time we got super excited, made more plans for May, had a couple of pee breaks, I told Matt he was pussey whipped and Boo's jarmies arrived. Hurrah!
So now we both have hot pink jarmies with lady bugs, hearts and flowers on them. Mort and Tru may need to wear protective eyewear when they stay at Boo's in fear of damaging their sight, because when I say hot pink, I mean hot pink!
And lastly, I have yet another scar to add to my left arm. While playing with Molly, she was doing her usual Jack Russel whip-around-the-house-at-a-hundred-miles-an-hour-and-see-how-much-I-can-knock-over thing and she ran over my hand and scratched the shite out of my knuckles. I'm still bleeding and it happened about four hours ago.
The thing is, it's always my left arm. Not my right arm, or my leg, but the left arm. At the moment I have a scar from a friends dog accidentally scratching me (yet again our playing got out of hand), a couple of scars from my lovely rose bushes, a burn from the time I thought it would be a good idea to pick up the tray I'd just taken out of the oven, without wearing oven mitts and now this.