This afternoon, whilst attempting to put dinner on the table, I was engaging in two of my favorite pastimes: text yelling at My Parasitic twin while also text yelling at her husband. It was some varsity level millennial shit. Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? First MPT and I were text […]
Her power to burst my bubble transcends space and time.
I will spare you the gruesome details but let’s just say it was fucking gross. When I pulled out my phone BEFORE THE PROCEDURE my vet said, “You aren’t going to video this are you?!?”
The Renaissance Festival is walking into the equivalent of a strip club for kids and LARPers. If you ain’t throwing down the bills you ain’t having fun.
I felt the pervasive loneliness of my youth, desperation for love and barring that, pretty much any kind of companionship.
I promise it won’t be a 24-Hour Pity Party, just the usual stuff on my mind, most of which is stupid but makes me happy to put into words.
Sing it with me, Bain de Soleil for the Saint Tropez taaaaaannnnnn.
Nice is France’s fifth most populace city and has a very Paris-by-the-sea feeling, but with enough Italian influence that it is delightful shades of pink, yellow and terra cotta rather than gray.
I want to be 100% caught up before I proceed to spam my blog with smug posts about my fabulous European travel.
I feel like it is still best that I run my hobbies on a “better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission” basis and just fucking go for it while Loony is at work. Or out of town.