I bought a whole bag of dickey-clips yesterday. Who says I have attachment problems?
I checked my expiration date last week (I have to do that a couple of times a year so I don't goof up). All OK so far. I've got between seven seconds and 30 years to go. Am working on refining the precision of that estimate so I don't keel over in the middle of snack time, leaving half a plate of cookies uneaten, and spilling my beer.
I created a blog post. It's for my cat, Blog. He likes to scratch stuff. Hence the post. For Blog, my cat.
I got to third base with Louella. She's one hot potato. I baked her myself. Then got disqualified for playing baseball with a baked potato. Went home, and ate her anyway.
I grew up in an environment rich in ceramic air strikes. Mom liked throwing dishes and other crashy things.
I hogtied my teacher and stuffed her into the closet. When I was five. I should check on her one of these days. Now that I'm retired and have the time.
I just received a note from Mom. It surfaced as they were digging her up. She died a few years back but they forgot to perform the exorcism at that time, which is why the shovel work took place this week. So anyway, the note — it says "Please, whatever you do, you dumb fuck, don't let them bury me in the dirt." Not signed, but it sure sounds like what Mom would write. I'll have to give this one some thought. Maybe.
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Me? Recounting my toes. (Just to be real sure.)
