I’m here in my home office.
HAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, that’s rich. I have a laptop on my, you know, lap, in the living room, on the couch. With Colonel Mustard. Why is it spelled that way? “Colonel.” How is that even pronounced kernel? Why isn’t it colo-nolo-lull? Speaking of which, the things you guys told me in the comments yesterday were LIKE TO KILL ME. Olives are the same, just green if they’re less ripe and black if they’re ripe ripe? REALLY? PEPPERS ARE THE SAME TOO? COME ON!!
Anyway, my fatness. Is why I gathered you all here today.
Work has been kicking my sizeable arse all the way to Arseville, and I like how “arse” is somehow not a swear. All you did was add an R to a bad word. Fruck that.
Anyway, since it’s been so busy, which srucks, after my day is done all I can do is lie listlessly and that means I’m not exercising. That means I am Mrs. Potatohead-shaped. No one wants to brang Mrs. Potatohead. No one wants to give Mrs. P the hrigh hrard one. Well. Probably Mr. Potatohead does. Were there any new potatoes in that family or what? Did Mr. Potatohead have to go back in his … back door and get out his potato prenis to brang Mrs. Potatohead?
This is why I should not be locked down in a pandemic. I act like my brain is less ridiculous when the whole world is healthy.
By the way, while I write you, I’m watching the Adventures of Teresa, the poor soul shopping for my groceries over there at the Corona Lion grocery store. Also, if that isn’t weird enough, watching someone shop for you, Lily is tearing around the house pouncing on things. She’s running sideways and chirping and galloping and I’d get up and film it for you but my arse is dragging.
Anyway, first, beleaguered Teresa replaced my Heinz ketchup with some other brand. (“Teresa is replacing June’s ketchup with another brand. Let’s see what happens.”) Hooo care. But then…
I KNEW IT. Who do I have to fruck around here to get some groddram BLEACH? I thought all you heifers were SO into NATURAL cleansers with your white VINEGAR and your positive thoughts and your crystals. NOW LOOK AT YOU. Stealing all my bleach.
I WAS USING HARSH CHEMICALS BEFORE IT WAS COOL.
Anyway, I have been awake for ages, because there was a thunderstorm in the middle of the night, and now that the dog and I have spent nearly every second in the same room since February 18, we are psychically bonded, so I woke up knowing he was waking up. The best part of waking up, is psychic-ing with your pup.
No no no no no. She’s replacing my regular CAT FOOD with some OTHER cat food, and what the HELL, Teresa? What fresh cat food hell are you bringing me? Goddammit. This pandemic sucks my rass.
Back to Eds.
I knew he was down there scared, and it’s hard for him to pull his old hips up on the bed with me, but he did it, and next thing you know he was lying across the other pillow and I was spooning him and petting his head, and eventually I got him to sleep and I lay there with dog hip on my face till the birds started chirping, and that’s when you know you’re frucked. The birds start and you know you can’t go back to sleep.
She just replaced my soy chicken nuggies. Soy chicken nugs are MY ONLY JOY LEFT RIGHT NOW. Gol’ DANGit.
I know I am jumping about with 17 subjects, but Lily just slapped Iris clean across the face. Lily, just this week, started very tentatively going outside with me, and nibbling grass delicately, and very femininely vomiting said grass onto the patio, using a lace hanky to dab at her cat lips after. The point is, outdoors has brought her new life or something. Who even is she? That’s was Iris would like to know, with her new black eye, feat. Lily.
THEY’RE OUT OF MY BROCCOLI TOTS? DRAMMIT, Teresa.
I realize it’s not Teresa’s fault. I also realize that THIS IS THE DAY you quit me, after 13 years of me blogging, because OH MY GOD STICK TO ONE TOPIC, JUNE.
Okay, here’s a little bit of hope: Teresa replaced my regular taquitos with EXTRA-CRISPY taquitos. At least I have that.
I’d better go, as work is before me, finally, and it won’t be long before Teresa is here with a mallet to club me to death. At least I know she won’t club me to death with a tub of bleach.
P.S. The irony of talking about my potato shape and simultaneously rejoicing in extra-crispy taquitos is not lost on me. On the other hand, I have extra-crispy taquitos and you don’t.