If you're a very strange and somewhat stalk-y person with a long memory, you might remember this post, where I told the uproarious story of how I nearly severed my pinky and then made Dr. Crog throw up at midnight. Good times.
Since that time, I'm not embarrassed to admit that I have been a leeeetle leery of the remaining glass in that set. Purchased when we were living in 1-bedroom splendor in Clemson, those Wal-Mart glasses have been through a lot and may actually be possessed by a demon of some sort. A demon with a chip on its demonic shoulder. For me. Even if Dr. Crog was most likely the part responsible for breaking the first 14 glasses by... I dunno... transferring gasoline from his motorcycle to the cat's litter box or something. He breaks glassware more creatively than anyone i've ever known, and that's saying something.
So this morning, I was picking up the remainders of my breakfast in preparation for a possible visitor, when SMACK. The last glass broke against the table. For no reason. Again, nearly severing my finger.
Okay, not severing. But there was blood! Buckets and buckets of blood!!
No, not that either. A little bit of blood.
And I think it speaks to the power of parenthood that my first instinct was to pick up the glass and vacuum, lest my poor toddler slash her sweet little chewed up toesies.
So now, the glasses are no more. We have destroyed or lost 16 drinking glasses since 2001. SIXTEEN. And you know what? I'm GLAD. Because they really did have it out for me. There was a yearning for my blood built into their very matrices, and I have lived in minor terror of them for the last couple of years.
But now i'm free. Free to enjoy my polka-dotted Target glasses, which would never, ever hurt me.
Unless the spirit of those Wal-Mart glasses transferred at the very end, like Poltergeist or something.
Great. Now i'm scared again.