Step on a crack and you'll break your momma's back.
You don't know how many cracks I've jumped over, yes, even now, because of that statement (you don't know how many I've stepped on either).
I am a superstitious woman. Beware walking in my kitchen with barefoot because you're likely to slip in the piles of salt lying scattered throughout. Who cares about gas prices, if that black cat crosses my path, I'm turning around. The bayou in the back of my mom's yard is filled with my broken mirrors; ain't no seven years of bad luck followin me around. And as for Lowe's, well, it's a ladder nightmare. I've even gone as far as creating a few of my own superstitions.
When I was just a young girl, there was an armadillo that had the misfortune of kissing the wheel. Alas, the wheel did not return his affections, and the wretched creature crawled off to die. His final resting place was a sidewalk I frequented on a daily basis. My walks would take me past his body in all of it's decaying glory. Each day he faded until at last a mighty wind (no, I didn't fart...ooo...I hate that word...fart), carried him away. That patch became "The Sacred Armadillo Spot." Never could human feet pass over this sacred armadillo spot. I had no idea what would happen to the feet that did pass over that spot because its sacredness was so awesome that no one dared attempt it. Certainly not me. I still don't walk over the sacred armadillo spot.
Being superstitious, aside from not knowing how to spell the word, and it being a cool Stevie Wonder song, isn't as cracked up as it's made to be. It's annoying, actually. Your days are filled with nonsense ritual...tossing salt, walking back and forth under ladders, throwing mirrors into the bayou, kissing your husband goodbye once, or three times...but for goodness sakes, NEVER twice. Imagine the woe, the panic, the absolute FEAR that would strike if you missed doing something to avert evil. It's like those freaking chain letters you get in your email...ergh...send this out to 1,000 people or your dog will stop licking your toes in the middle of the night...what's that? We don't have a dog?
Damn, you freak.
Those things usta freak the everliving out of me. I'd be like...oh gods...if I don't fill this out and answer 128 questions asking weird things about me like if I like mountains or desert (like I've been to the desert...come on now) or if I like Sprite or Mountain Dew (dew the dew), then the love of my life will be eaten by a rabid monkey squirrel.
Well, can the squirrel at least wait til we get life insurance?