BOOM

I hate fireworks.

I hate loud noises.

I am what happens when a shelter animal and a war vet have a child together.

I felt for Septimus over Clarissa in Mrs. Dalloway. (Worried about the flowers for the party? Nope, I hate boquets. They just die and flop over. Haunted and hunted by destruction, unclear on past vs. present, & struggling to discern what’s outside yr skull vs. inside it? O, U got my #, Septi.)

The fourth of July means BOOM, lots. So much I-don’t-know-when-the-next-sound-punishment-is-coming, so I bump around the house like a Roomba hating all the happy people.

Because I’m crazy rather than stupid, I am able to see the suboptimal nature of this process. That awareness quickly and efficiently packs a carry-on of self criticisms, which the Roomba dutifully shoulders, and then continues bumping into things, but now leaking a trail of unwashed socks and travel-sized eye creams.

Yes the metaphor went off the rails there. You are 100% correct. That is a thing I do, frequently, and with more abandon and relish than seems… seemly. Which brings us to the crux of the issue, friends: