It’s Quite Possible I’m High Right Now

I’m crabby. You wanna know why I’m crabby? Because this morning, when Alex noticed gas dripping out of his motorcycle’s fuel line and then poked at it, causing the thing to disintegrate, resulting in our frantic running around for buckets and whatnot, only to succeed in finding them mere instants before the gas tank ran dry, well, that was not an awesome way to start my day.

Also? All the stink molecules and fumes from the spill seem to have migrated directly INTO my house, leaving the garage smelling all sweet and cat litter-y (which I poured on the spill), but the house still smells like a gas station.

I have a headache and am possibly quite high on the fumes—and not in a fun “it’s hard to lean against this wall when it’s hugging me back” kind of way, but rather in a toxic “I’m gonna go lie down and maybe never get up again” kind of way.

I’ve combed the area to see if anyone accidentally brought something gas soaked inside, but there is nothing. I don’t think it’s me because when I leave the house and then come back inside, I am re-hit with the smell. Also I was very careful to not get gas all over me.

Alex was not quite so good with not getting gas all over him, especially due to the fact that he, unlike me, was there for the initial fuel line implosion, and it was probably highly surprising and undoubtedly splashed all over him.

By the time we stemmed the flow of gas (and by “stemmed the flow of gas,” I mean, “watched helplessly as the gas all ran onto the floor of the garage”), Alex had to rush to work with no time to re-shower.

I’m pretty sure he has had an extremely unpleasant day, which is the only thing keeping me from calling him repeatedly with my own complaints. I drove him to the Metro station for his non-motorcycle commute with the windows down and air pouring into the car.

“I bet the confined space of the Metro car will be awesome,” he said.

I’m just surprised he wasn’t arrested on suspicion of being a bomb before he sat down. I was laughing hysterically (gas fumes?) about his potential arrest as he got out of the car with an emphatic giving of the finger.

I wonder how long it will be before his employers send him home or force him into a Silkwood-style shower.

Okay, wait. In the twenty minutes that I’ve been trying to find a way to end this post (definitely gas fumes), I decided to open up all the windows on the side of the house away from the garage. I feel better already.

Edited to add: Alex and I have been exchanging surly emails all morning. I just got this from him: “When I ordered the spare part to fix the bike, the lady said, ‘Look on the bright side, at least you’re not on fire.'” She makes an excellent point.

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