If you ever want to irk me, go ahead and be a fussy coffeepot.
My regularly scheduled one, at my old house,
(aw, old house)
died right when I moved. So I went to a kitchen store (who knew there was such a thing) and got a Cusinart little teensy coffee pot on sale
(aw, new house) and guess what.
It’s fussy. You have to have the LID on just so. You have to have the filter in just so. Half the time I get out the shower and it hasn’t worked at all, or has made an inch of coffee and gotten ennui. This does not work with my executive lifestyle.
Speaking of which, I’m going to attempt to stop talking to you early enough that I can scream to the store before work. I have to get bread and cheese and wine, as that is the hard-hitting stuff I’m bringing to my Thanksgiving tomorrow. How the hell do you display cheese? I’m never good at it. It always looks like Frankenstein hacked at it with this hand.
I also have to drive to Tibet after work to cat-sit for my friend who is quickly moving down to B-list. Oh my god she lives far away. Why didn’t she hire a dang cat-sitter? I look forward to her return, when she reads me complaining about her and kicks my ass. The good news is, she’ll have to drive all the way over from Tibet and won’t be able to do much as she will be exhausted.
I can hear cat playing while I type, and little chirps I assume are coming from Milhous.
The only one not having a play FESTIVAL is Iris, who is misunderstood and in her room listening to The Cure. Won’t you enjoy my current musical references?
All right, I’d better go to the store, which ought to be a relaxing time. The store nearest me is the one my old reading-tutor student referred to as The Ghetto Lion, when that man approached her one day while we were TRYINA STUDY to brag about how he managed the Food Lion on [insert street near me here]. “That’s the Ghetto Lion,” she said, dismissing him in one sentence.
I wish I had that kind of bitchiness in me.
We feel like you DO have that kind of bitchiness in you, Joooon.
Oh, fek off.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING! Oooo, let’s do our thing where you send me photos of your holiday.
Email me (firstname.lastname@example.org) with THANKSGIVING as your email subject line so I can find it in all my emails. If you don’t, I won’t find it, won’t put your picture up, and you’ll send me that sad emoji and I will have to drive over and kill you because you know how I feel about emojis.
Then in the email, send the photo, your first name (or your name when you comment on my blog) and where in the world you are.
One time I did this, and people started sending me photos that read, “Bathsheba, in my kitchen.”
I MEAN WHAT CITY, BATHSHEBA.