Secret Animalistic Self

So, Alexis got back last week from DC. She'd been there for six weeks, leaving me in charge of myself, the animals, the house, the neighborly relations, and our grass-covered postage stamps (front and back). Left with this sort of free reign, I reverted to a more animalistic, natural, sociopathic sort of lifestyle...

This included:

Reducing my daily activities to one of three options: Running, Drinking, Recovering (from running, drinking, or the vacillation between the two) - Oh, and saving the Shire

Not cleaning the house.

Ignoring the dogs.

Taking ridiculous numbers of baths.

Therefore, the Thursday before my girl's arrival found me madly vacuuming, straightening, and generally attempting to attain some semblance of respectable solidity. All was going quite swimmingly (except the inevitable breaks for Lavendar Sea-Salt Soaks) until I parked myself in front of the sink to wash a mountain of dishes. It's not that there were a threatening number of dishes, or that they were outrageously dirty - it's that the pile consisted solely of every cup in the house and EVERY KNIFE.

I ask you...what in God's name had I been doing for six weeks with only cups and knives. I have no recollection of it.

Horrible, horrible images come to mind of unwitting vampiric rites (I would be the vampire to neatly slice an artery and catch the resultant dinner in a Pokemon glass) or warm late-night carnal sacrifices consumed bent low over a kitchen sink.

I looked around the kitchen for smears of blood.

And wondered what the neighbors had seen...good thing the Dogwood bushes are higher this year.

Honestly, it's been a week, and I cannot figure out what I was doing with all of those knives, and nothing else. Perhaps it's just that I'm living my true Viking Meadhall lifestyle, with only a Tankard and a rusty blade to sustain me. Good thing the Wench came home - it's unclear where I would have gone a'pillaging next.