I Still Hate Grasshoppers.

I have mentioned before that I really hate grasshoppers, for instance, here.  I just hate them.  They jump and fly at the same time and they land and you can hear them and it is all just wrong.  So naturally, they seem to flock to me.  I was driving home one night about a week ago and looked at the side mirror on the passenger side of my Hamster Car, and this is what I saw:

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Just, right there.  Like it was nothing.  Sitting on my car.  As if it belonged.  IT DOES NOT BELONG.   Then last night I stopped to get gas and was held hostage and could not get back in my car because of this bastard:

I shuffled around outside of my car, flapping and walking back and forth, until it finally hopped/flew away.  And the video, that right there is the zoom feature, I was NOT that close to that thing.

And you know what else sucks about grasshoppers?  The thing I hate about grasshoppers is that I also hate crickets, and Disney went and made Jiminy Cricket whose name suggests he is a cricket, but whose appearance suggests he is a grasshopper.  There is probably some explanation involving Science and entomology, but I do not care.  Crickets are black and grasshoppers are green and Jiminy Cricket is a grasshopper.

Here is Jiminy:

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Here is a cricket:

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Not the same.

Also, there is a hat that is stalking me that appeared out of nowhere in 2010 and keeps reappearing.  I went to NYC in 2010 and when I got home, in my luggage, was this hat.

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That is not my hat, nor is it the hat of anyone I know.  I left the hat in the luggage because I thought it was weird and maybe had bugs in it or was a plant of some kind to spy on me, or possibly even an explosive device.  It stayed in the luggage for maybe two years.  Then one day, I was pulling random things off the floor of my closet, and the hat came out.  The luggage was not there, just the hat.  The luggage was empty in my parent’s room and the hat was well buried under piles of clothes and shoes.  I put Satan’s Hat into the bottom of a tall laundry basket and stuffed clothes that I was going to get rid of on top of it.  Of course, I never got rid of those clothes, because that is how I am. So the laundry basket stayed there, with Satan’s Hat buried underneath.  Months later, the hat was sitting on the desk in my library.  I put the hat way under my bed (why I thought having Satan’s Hat under my bed was a good idea, I have no idea), and it stayed there, even after my rooms were thoroughly cleaned.  About a week after the thorough cleaning of my rooms, this is what I found:

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Oh, you might say, your parents are messing with you.  BUT NO, THEY ARE NOT.  My parents do not know about Satan’s Hat.  Ok, then, you will say, the person who cleaned your rooms moved the hat.  If that were the case, why did it show up a week after she left?  The only answer is Satan.  I need to set the hat on fire or have a priest fling holy water at it or something.

I am getting a new tattoo on Wednesday, one I have been trying to get designed for many years, and the artist who is designing has not yet sent me any pictures.  I have a feeling I am going to show up Wednesday and he is going to say “Here it is!” and I will be too embarrassed to say I do not like it or want it changed, and I will get it tattooed on my arm forever.  Although, not really.  I had no qualms about asking for adjustments after my Extraordinary Girl tattoo was designed.  I guess even I am not awkward enough to not speak up about something that is permanent.