Post Traumatic Snake Syndrome

Oh look, a kitten baking bread!

There is nothing traumatic about kittens. Unlike snakes, kittens are cute and furry; apparently, they like to bake bread. Additionally they don't smell like ass. Snakes do. (Smell like ass, not bake bread).

Nature and I have had an unspoken arrangement. I avoid nature. Nature avoids me. This agreement has worked out well. Now for some reason Mother Nature hates me, just like Mrs. Ebrahardt my preschool teacher hated me.

Mother Nature could have sent me a flock of cooing doves, or a playful woodland creature, or perhaps a fluffy kitten. Instead, I got an odiferous serpent, the smell of which will be imprinted on my brain for the rest of my life.

Mrs. Ebrahardt could have worn pants. Instead, she chose to wear long flowy skirts and then she got mad when she caught me instructing four-year-old boys to lie on the floor to get the best view of her garters and support hose. I still remember how mean she was and her horrible perfume.

For weeks after the garter incident, I imagined Mrs. Ebrahardt around every corner, silently lurking in the shadows trying to catch me being bad. A Garter snake so to speak, a big stinky Garter snake threatening to tell my mother on me. It freaked me out.

Finding a snake yesterday freaked me out. I AM STILL FREAKING THE HELL OUT.

I have developed a condition as a result of the shock. I think you call it Post Traumatic Snake Syndrome.


Have a look...

Don't worry this is not my butt. It is my shoulder. Ignore the freckles and liver spots those are not symptoms of my ailment. I am referring to the lovely red splotches. Someone less medically astute than I may mistake them for hives,

And yes, I am covered with them.
Thanks for asking.

I am now adding Calamine lotion to the list of odors indelibly imprinted on my brain.

Out-T.