Right. First off, I would like to thank my body for giving me strep as a graduation present. So, thanks, body. You were all out of miraculously growing two inches at the age of twenty two?
Secondly, I love my Mac and its lack of viruses, I really do. But what I don't love is that sometimes when I press enter it types out "0p;/=]" and no one knows why. Sometimes it just goes away and sometimes I have to click randomly around the screen and it goes away. I do not know.
Like just now. It just went away. I didn't do anything. And this is the one thing I own that I didn't name, so it shouldn't be developing a personality.
Also, addressing the horror of our Sunday night dinners coming true...Man, that would be awful. Wine would reappear and disappear at will, our father would be the High Commissioner of Mesopotamia, complete with his own Gilbert and Sullivan song, and I...I...would be married to a penguin. So I could be queen of Antarctica. This is our father's master plan for me. One of my four marriages? Gonna be a penguin. Right after the middle European royalty. And the gay guy. In high school, he wanted me to be an astrophysicist. Now he wants me to rule a barren, empty continent. I don't think I had to go to college for that; he could have just given me a scarf.
Lastly, Boston: Stop having such crappy weather. It's my last month here and I can't fully enjoy being an elitist, liberal Beacon Hill resident if it's 48 degrees and pouring. I don't think I've angered Ra lately, but I must have as he is punishing me just when I've met a guy with a roof deck. And no, that is not a euphemism. Now off to my dinner. Of mashed potatoes and popsicles. Fantastic.
ETA: Uh...my whole attraction to guys that reminded of Dark Heart was reinforced painfully and disturbingly when, while watching TV tonight, a rather elfin, pointy-jawed character I had always liked became incredibly attractive after it was discovered that he blew up a bus full of people, exploded a plane and orchestrated a very complicated cover-up. I have a problem.
10 comments:
you spelled "elitist" wrong. That's not even ironic. It just sucks.
Strep is not an excuse. Fix it or I'll empikenate you.
PS Heh. Our word verification word is "Urkax". He speaks for the trees.
Yeah. Shuttup. This is the first time I've had solid food since Saturday, and on Saturday all I had was a piece of Derby Pie, which, while delicious, is not nutritious.
Also, the Dark Heart boy that blew up the bus and the plane and ran over the guy? Had an obnoxious, overbearing older sibling. I'm just throwin' that out there...
Nothing to see here.
So's your face.
Shh. It's a SECRET.
Your Sunday dinners are the stuff dreams are made of.Most mortals eat meatloaf and silence while you pour whines into the night.Sunday dinners teach irony to dinosaurs and create connections not otherwise recognised. Your scorn lacks grace, as does the Principality of Monaco. Pace,Penguin.Remember Milton.
get it oin wikipedia.It's not a galaxy but oft we compromise
If you think their Sunday dinners are cool, you should check out their Monday breakfasts. From what I hear, that's where the really weird sh*t goes down.
...I think "Anonymous" is our father. In which case he knows that our Monday breakfasts don't occur until around 1:00 in the afternoon and mostly consist of one of us going "Whatcha eeeeeating?"
Oh shit. He What Made Us is here? Uh. Quick, do a universal find and replace for um...every word here.
This is what comes of posting comments on John Hodgeman's blog. A father innocently pops onto the computer and ten minutes later reads a paragraph wherein his daughter mentions the fact that every tree in her neighborhood looks like a giant dick. Shall we just split the therapy bills three ways?
Yeah. He totally needs therapy from that time he almost had a heart attack when I nonchalantly told him that Puppy's ex had only dated girls before dating him. I could hear him turning red on the phone.
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