My good pair of scissors have gone missing, nowhere at all to be found. I hid those fuckers pretty good, too.
I bought them over the summer because try as I might, my secret, hidden scissors are always found. When they are found out, whoever is borrowing them gets me talking like a possessed person. GIVE ME BACK MY SCISSORS AFTER YOU’RE DONE, I say low and slow.
YOU WILL NOT LOSE THESE AND WILL PUT THEM BACK ONCE YOU ARE FINISHED WITH THEM, I say more as a threat than a suggestion.
As a mom and parent, I share all my shit all of the time. I shared my body for nine months with one of these people. And yet, they can’t put my damn scissors back where they’re supposed to go.
I need to invent mom scissors. I have no idea what that would entail but I do like the sound of others getting a tiny zap every few seconds when my family doesn’t put them back in an alotted amount of time.
Even our crappy, will not cut anything scissors are gone. That’s probably for the best though.
I saw that my husband had that pair in the bathroom with him when he was trimming his hairy berries for his vasectomy.
So, yeah, on the bright side, I know my good scissors weren’t used in that Edward Scissorhands moment.