So, this is weird. As you know, I have a crazy imagination. The things I see in my head would scare most people to death. I can conjure up the most bizarre ideas and thoughts in my mind. I probably need drugs and therapy, but who doesn't?!
So, yesterday I was packing for our trip to America. I was looking for sunblock, shampoo, and soap in the bathroom cabinets. I jumped on top of the toilet in my restroom, opened up the cabinet, and found something weird. I found an opened bottle of anesthetic. I studied the small bottle wondering whose it could be and why it would be in my bathroom cabinet. Its label said that is was an inhalation anesthetic. It was prescription strength but there was no prescription label on it. I was perplexed.
Immediately my crazy, out of control mind started thinking. I came up with two possible scenarios: (1) Husband is a drug addict, and I just found his stash, or (2) Husband is a serial killer and uses the drug to relieve the pain of his victims before he kills them. Wow! I pondered both ideas in my mind looking for other clues that might point me to the correct conclusion. Could my sweet, loving Husband secretly be a drug addict, I asked myself? I thought about it over and over in my mind. After a minute or two, I realized my Husband could never be a drug addict. After all, he doesn't even like to take Pepto when he has an upset stomach, and he never takes Gas-X, even when I beg him to. So, the only logical conclusion was this: I live with a serial killer.
I went over the idea in my head. I started to look back and reflect on Husband's recent behavior. He didn't seem like a serial killer. He's not aggressive, he's not controlling, he's not white, he's not even that charming. He does have a weird family, but that's all I could come up with. Then, in my sick, grotesque mind I thought, Cool, I'm doing a serial killer, how awesome is that! I was distraught and disgusted that the idea of having sex with a possible serial killer could be considered cool in my sick, demented mind. I need help, I thought to myself. Then, I started to focus on my new, possible reality. Shit, what do I do if Husband is a real serial killer? I decided to ask Husband about the prescription drug and see what his explanation would be once I brought it up. His response would give me the clues I needed to decide for myself.
So, I waited until he came home from work. After he walked in and played with Jude for a few minutes, I confronted him with what I had found. His response was boring and made sense. Apparently, the medication was needed to calibrate some medical equipment at work. Since the medication is considered a narcotic, having it on his desk or in his tool box at home was not a good idea. He was worried Jude might play with his work tools and stumble across the drug. So, he put it in our bathroom cabinet on the highest shelf to keep Jude safe. I know, it's a perfectly good excuse and a very boring one. Thus, it must be true.
So, Husband is not a serial killer, at least not yet.
So, yesterday I was packing for our trip to America. I was looking for sunblock, shampoo, and soap in the bathroom cabinets. I jumped on top of the toilet in my restroom, opened up the cabinet, and found something weird. I found an opened bottle of anesthetic. I studied the small bottle wondering whose it could be and why it would be in my bathroom cabinet. Its label said that is was an inhalation anesthetic. It was prescription strength but there was no prescription label on it. I was perplexed.
Immediately my crazy, out of control mind started thinking. I came up with two possible scenarios: (1) Husband is a drug addict, and I just found his stash, or (2) Husband is a serial killer and uses the drug to relieve the pain of his victims before he kills them. Wow! I pondered both ideas in my mind looking for other clues that might point me to the correct conclusion. Could my sweet, loving Husband secretly be a drug addict, I asked myself? I thought about it over and over in my mind. After a minute or two, I realized my Husband could never be a drug addict. After all, he doesn't even like to take Pepto when he has an upset stomach, and he never takes Gas-X, even when I beg him to. So, the only logical conclusion was this: I live with a serial killer.
I went over the idea in my head. I started to look back and reflect on Husband's recent behavior. He didn't seem like a serial killer. He's not aggressive, he's not controlling, he's not white, he's not even that charming. He does have a weird family, but that's all I could come up with. Then, in my sick, grotesque mind I thought, Cool, I'm doing a serial killer, how awesome is that! I was distraught and disgusted that the idea of having sex with a possible serial killer could be considered cool in my sick, demented mind. I need help, I thought to myself. Then, I started to focus on my new, possible reality. Shit, what do I do if Husband is a real serial killer? I decided to ask Husband about the prescription drug and see what his explanation would be once I brought it up. His response would give me the clues I needed to decide for myself.
So, I waited until he came home from work. After he walked in and played with Jude for a few minutes, I confronted him with what I had found. His response was boring and made sense. Apparently, the medication was needed to calibrate some medical equipment at work. Since the medication is considered a narcotic, having it on his desk or in his tool box at home was not a good idea. He was worried Jude might play with his work tools and stumble across the drug. So, he put it in our bathroom cabinet on the highest shelf to keep Jude safe. I know, it's a perfectly good excuse and a very boring one. Thus, it must be true.
So, Husband is not a serial killer, at least not yet.
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