Enter rambling

You know what I want for Christmas? One of those paper towel holders that you stand up on your counter.

^^^^^AMAZON LINK!^^^^^^

Several months ago, one of you said, Hey, June. Why don’t you become an Amazon Associate to earn more money? And so I did. I put up a permanent link to Amazon on my sidebar (See? See it? Are you looking at my side bar? [slap] Keep your eyes off my side bar. Perv).

And sometimes I’d throw in an Amazon image here in the post that, if you click on it, you get to Amazon, and say Amazon one more time.

And by the way, for some reason I can’t ever put a link to Amazon with words on it. Like, one of these…

//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ac&ref=tf_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=booko04-20&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B000G62YE8&asins=B000G62YE8&linkId=2f1089c847f0610c1fab92ac91e31505&show_border=false&link_opens_in_new_window=false&price_color=333333&title_color=0066c0&bg_color=ffffff

See.

THE POINT IS, I am forever forgetting to add links to Amazon in my posts.

  1. So, click these images
  2. You’ll get to Amazon.
  3. If you shop after you’ve clicked over,
  4. I get cash.
  5. Cold cash.
  6. Don’t you have Christmas shopping to do or whatever?

Forgetting to add Amazon links is why I don’t have money. I’m not ambitious enough.

And speaking of numbers, yesterday I was talking to a reader who said, “The number of comments you get don’t represent how many readers you get.”

….!

Of COURSE it doesn’t. Did she really think that 50 people read me a day? That’s so sad. Also, I forget that not everyone works in social media the way I do.

Anyway, I told her how many readers I get normally, and then she looked at how many comments I get normally.

I rarely check how many comments I get. I just get emails from you when you comment and go, “Heh, yeah” or “HAHAHAHAHA” or “Oh, fuck YOU” or whatever. Anyway, she figured out it’s like one comment for every 35 or 52 readers or something.

It was maths. Reader, can you remember the exact ratio? Cause you know how I get with numbers. They come to me on gossamer wings and flitter out my head dusting rose-gold glitter.

IMG_1871.jpgNot-So-Faithful-Reader Ryan and I took a walk yesterday. “You’re too TALL to photograph,” I kvetched, so he came up with this dramatic scenario so I could fit him into the frame…

IMG_1872.jpgBelievable. Do you beLIEVE in life after love {after love after love}

I guess mostly what I did today was enter here rambling, and talking about Amazon and numbers and hooo care, then plunk you into the middle of my yesterday and not be linear at all.

I once took an African literature class, which is something you do in college when you’re all high on the gange, which actually I never was but roll with it, so to speak. Anyway, I read a story where this person wandered a village, and each hut had a number, and he’d visit Hut 4 then Hut 86 then Hut 3, and all the American people were all OH MY GOD VISIT IN ORDER.

Which was a thing we didn’t even NOTICE was bugging us till the professor pointed out we were being, I don’t know, not African or something.

So thank heavens at least 10 of my 50 readers are in Africa.

IMG_1860.jpgAnyway, Nervous Nellie and I visited the vet yesterday, where it turns out that even though I am spending $800 a month on flea meds, the fleas are resisting and now Eds, and most likely his cat backups, are having the fleas. Dammit.

And here’s what happened. Yesterday after said vet appointment, I got on Facebook and I was all Diagnosis: Fleas. And then I said the vet had to prescribe something.

This was followed by 939549323 comments with people telling me what flea medication to get.

“But I–”

“See, I already–”

“Yeah, I got–”

I give up.

I also, on Facebook, asked everyone to not IM me, and one person I don’t actually know in real life wrote, “Oh, but I IM you to show my eternal love” or whatever, and I wrote back and said, “Yeah. that’s great, but an unbalanced person contacted me that way, twice, and now every time my IM thing lights up, I get shaky and sick thinking she’s back.”

I understand, she wrote.

The very next day she sent an IM. No apology, no “I know you don’t want IMs,” nothing. And it was a goddamn animated thing about Christmas. Hey, unfriend.

I mean, I could not have expressed my needs and why I had them more clearly. Jesus.

IMG_1878IMG_1874IMG_1875Also, I stepped on Steely Dan last night. I didn’t MEAN to. I didn’t plan a night of STOMP at my house or anything. He was in the hall, and it was dark in the hall, and he is dark, and I know you have gotten the drift and wish I’d move on already.

I TRIPPED over him with one foot, then STOMPED terrecktly on his tail and oh, did he HISS and run off.

Did you ever chase after a cat you were just accidentally mean to? It’s so fruitless.

“I’M SORRY STEELY DAN! I LOVE YOU HONEY. MAMA’s SO SORRY!” He did not give one shit. It was not possible for him to have put his ears back any more fiercely.

As you can see, above, he forgave me enough to lurk on the fridge for breakfast. So. We’re working past it, with time and counseling.

How many photos of cats in that window ARE there, do you think?

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Oh my god, Francis was SUCH a dick.

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Anyway, I know I had other things to tell you, but I am Africa today, so I’m all over the place.  I have GOT to get my freelance work done this weekend, and I have a hundred pages to go, followed by spellchecking it and looking for consistencies throughout, which means I only have about 86 hours to go.

And no, I’m NOT being paid by the hour. I got a flat fee. This whole book was so stressful that instead of using the money I earn for something practical, I’m getting a kilo of weed, a willing lawn boy and Boston Market delivered to my door.

Can you even buy weed by the “kilo”? I should probably get into drugs briefly so these references remotely ring true.

IMG_1873.jpgI leave you with the following Gladys Kravitz news: My youngster neighbor is moving. Or else he’s a lesbian on his third date.

Not that I’m glued to my window like a shut-in or anything, but I noted his girlfriend left awhile back, and maybe he’s going wherever she went.

That’s the house where the lady would come home from third-shift nursing in the morning, with a paper bag of fast food, and I wanted to run over and tell her, “You’re moving more and more slowly, and it’s this fast food that’s killing you,” because as we all know, my food pyramid is banging.

Turns out, she was dying. She got diagnosed on Halloween, was dead by New Year’s day. She no longer felt hale and Hardee’s.

This is why I have bad luck.

So then this whippersnapper moved in a few years back, and I guess he’ll be selling the house, or god forbid renting it to his delinquent friends. But whatever happens, I hope that nice couch stays on the curb just forever. Total Joey and Chandler couch.

Okay, talk at you. I’ll try to write this weekend, as I will be isolating to get my work done and if I don’t somehow contact the outside world, I will get weird. Which you can see I’m far from.

Normally,

June

Weekend recap! Oh, June. Zzzzzz.

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On Friday night, my many wrinkles and I stayed home and copy edited, but NOT before I screwed up at work and felt just awful about it.

Do you remember that project I took home last weekend? The point of taking it home was so that when it came back from the printer and I looked it over one last time, I wouldn’t find that it had ONE MORE ERROR after all, the way I did LAST month.

Of course that thing came back from the printer at seven minutes to 5:00 Friday, and guess what I found.

Spelling error. DAMMIT.

I’ve spent the whole weekend trying to figure out how I could have done the job perfectly. I know people think, “Isn’t that what a copy editor does? Isn’t her whole job to check spelling errors?”

Oh, honey. It so isn’t all I do.

And maybe that’s the problem, I’ve decided. Maybe one person needs to check all the facts; the other all the art; the last one the spelling, grammar, and punctuation. And maybe something that cumbersome should not be looked at by one copy editor, but three or four.

I’ll stop talking about it now so you don’t die of boredom. But everyone was working late Friday, including our president. Not of the country, of the company. And I talked to him about this error, and how upset it made me, and awhile later I was obsessing at my desk and he came over.

“Hey, I know I told you not to sweat it, and that the important thing is you still found it before it went to print. But you know what? Thank you for sweating it. Thank you for caring.”

Then I had to go home and freelance.

The point is, pretty much every morning for the last two years I wake up with dread, because my romance sitch is so precarious. Even when we actually reunited officially last year, I woke up in dread, and had to take a moment to tell myself, “No, it’s okay. You’re back together.”

The point is, every so often lately I do NOT wake up in dread. Saturday I woke up and said, “You know what? You’ve been in this endless terrible relationship, and you made a mistake at work. You could look at it that way, or you could think, Well, it looks like I’m finishing a relationship that wasn’t good for me, and the president of my company knows I care about my work.”

So. That’s what I did. I opted for door number two.

IMG_1687.jpgIMG_1689.jpgOn Saturday morning, I schlepped my arse out to the country to hang with one of the Alexes, who makes funny needlepoint in her spare time, to sell at craft shows. I know you’d think I’d feel competitive, what with all m’crafts, but I don’t. I mean, nothing compares to my decoupage. So.

We sat for awhile behind her display, which sounds dirty but was just barely so, and caught up on each other’s gossip. Then I had to go.

IMG_1695.jpgI got up with Marty Martin, who is neither an old man with a walker or a ’50s strip mall, but for some reason all I photographed was my walk INto the coffee shop and not M Martin himself. And Dear M Martin: Could you REMIND me I have a blog and need to photograph everything, next time? GOD.

Wait. Does that old guy have a walker or just stripey pants?

Also also, this dick-ass popular hamburger place moved in there, but did nothing to improve the parking, and now you can’t park there to save your life. There are about 10 other stores besides Dick-Ass Popular Hamburgers, but do they care? No. For that reason alone, I never eat there.

IMG_1696.jpgIMG_1700.jpgAfter that, I screamed over to the old mill stream, where I first met you, or alternatively, the old mill where I get my hair done.

IMG_1701.jpgPoor Marty Martin was all, Well, if your appointment is at 1:00, we could meet after, at like 2:00 or something.

Oh, honey. Oh hairless honey. 2:00. He probably also thinks all copy editors do is check spelling.

IMG_1705.jpgHere we are at the dry-it-straight portion of our evening, and by that time it literally was evening.

IMG_1710.jpgWhen I got back to my car, I was amused by the dregs of my run-aroundy day.

IMG_1718Edsel at confession. Why do I try to have a screen?

On Sunday, Peg-my-neighbor’s daughter called me, as they are painting and fixing Peg’s house to eventually sell it. She wanted me to see it all cleared out.

IMG_1724.jpgAw, man. I just tried to find you photos of Peg’s house, which I know I have, but instead I just keep finding fun pictures of Peg through the years.

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Here she is in 2010, at our combo dress-as-your-biggest-fear party.

6a00e54f9367fb8834014e8825f96c970d.jpgHere she is at 5:00 in the morning, when we had our royal wedding get-together at her house.

Seeing her house all shiny and bare. Oh, man.

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This computer is like to kill me, and now it’s late and I gotta go before I can tell you how cool the building is where I have therapy. Even the ELEVATOR BUTTONS are cool.

Okay, talk to you later.

Wordily,

June

Kahlo of the wild. Or Fridatlanta. What do you want from me. I’m hung over.

Back when I first became a blogging person, in eighteen aught six, someone told me about another funny blogger named Miss Doxie.

What I just did, there, was call myself “funny” again, and that’s twice in a row, now. But I’ve only called myself funny twice since eighteen aught six, so that’s saying something.

The point is, I took to reading the Miss Doxie, and I was what you’d call a big fan. Oh, she was hilarious, and like me, was also incredibly successful and ridiculously pretty.

The day June lost eighteeen aught six readers.

Eventually, Miss Doxie and her long-term boyfriend, who never deserved her, broke up, and she met a new boy, who did. Deserve her, I mean. Whereas the first guy was not as…pretty as she was and also was a commitmentphobe, the new guy was cute cute cute, and proposed in less than two years, I think it was.

Oh, it was exciting when he proposed. So there I was, all caught up in someone else’s life story, and her wedding day was almost as exciting as my own.

cemeterywedding_lytlefoto043She got married in a cemetery, and Dear Miss Doxie: I stole this off the internet please do not arrest me.

The point is, she was someone whose blog I read and occasionally commented on, and then one day in 2011 I was at my lawyer’s office, commencing to get a divorce and I get an email from her.

From her! From Miss Doxie!

I can’t recall what it said, exactly, but I know she told me she read MY stupid blog, and boom, there it was. We became friends. I visited her in Atlanta later that year, and we stayed in touch, and she’d say, You have to come back and visit, and I’d say yeah.

This weekend, she had her annual oh-my-god-this-woman-loves-Halloween Halloween party, and she invited me, and I said, You know what? Hell yes Ima go. So I slapped on some antlers and drove six hours.

img_1467.pngI went as Frida Kahlo. I mean, for Halloween. Not as a houseguest. Yes, I’ll come visit, but you must call me Frida all weekend.

If you’re not familiar with Frida, and really?, you may wonder why I had the antlers going. Sometimes she painted herself with antlers, but I did not have time to search for Frida photos for very long, because it turns out I took 168 pictures this weekend, which took 800 years to upload, it took eighteen aught six hours to upload and oh my god now I’m in a hurry.

IMG_1275.jpgMiss Doxie had moved since I last visited, but as I pulled onto her street, I pretty much knew I’d found her house.

IMG_E1276.JPGNo scary stone was left unturned, man. Miss Doxie is in the details.

IMG_E1334.JPGIMG_E1289.JPGIMG_1291.jpgThe best part was, you never knew which thing was just gonna START ANIMATING when you walked up to it. A bear rug would start roaring and glowing red-eyed at you. A fucking creepy-ass doll would follow you and whisper.

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Or, for that matter…

I got to stay in the guest house, which was pretty cool, man. Miss Doxie is an excellent hostess, on top of all the other, you know, positive qualities and so forth. I eventually retired there to get ready for the shindig, because I’m from eighteen aught six. The jamboree. The gala.

IMG_1310.jpgI remember somebody once telling me that getting ready for the prom was the most fun part of prom. I kind of feel that way about getting ready for a party. This part is just so anticipatory.

IMG_1312.jpgOne hour of makeup, three hours of shopping at basic-girl stores for jewelry, half an hour of Amazon shopping for antlers and flowers, and zero time spent at the waxer this month, and fin. I am Frida. Where is my Diego?

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IMG_1329.jpgIMG_1339.jpgIMG_1318.jpgI was pretty pleased with other people’s costumes, and it should be noted that Doxie’s bartender came, which slayed me, and he was downstairs at her bar and said, “Let me make you an old-fashioned.” Who was I to argue? I’ll tell you who I was to argue. How about an adult who should know her limits? Maybe that’s who I coulda been. Later, a friend of Doxie’s said, Let me make you a spiced rum-and-cider drink. Who was I to argue?IMG_1451.jpgOh, June. That’s not actually a person, June.

I was having a high time, till somewhere around midnight, that six-hour drive and oh, possibly the eight gallons of alcohol hit me, and I was bone tired. Tired. In m’bones. I tried to go tell Doxie I was wandering back to my Fonzie guest house, but she was saying goodbye to people at the door.

I got in my pajamas and as I told her the next day, left a Shroud of Turin on her washcloth, washing off that Frida makeup.

I was just drifting off when my phone buzzed. “We’re just girls left, and we’re having girl wine!” Doxie texted me. “I’m already in my pa” I wrote back, then fell into a dead sleep till morning.

Turns out, she stayed up till 4. FOUR! Who is a pussy? Is it me?

IMG_1463.jpgEven little girls drank harder than me. Had I had any more alcohol, I’d have been less Oz and more paging Dr. Oz. So.

IMG_1284.jpgIMG_1283.jpgThe point is, I survived, and got to kibitz with her dogs, and her spouse, and her people, and it was so worth driving 12 hours in one weekend.

And the possible alcohol poisoning.

Now tomorrow I gotta, you know, put that outfit on again, as it is actually Halloween.

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But I can do it. I’m not a Frida-cat.

Self-portraitly,

Traveling June

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Miss Doxie, the very reason I have a “June doesn’t know any ugly people” category.

My Friend Flicker

They’ve changed how they’re doing things at my job: I used to work on just one account, but now they’ve split it, so I’m copy editing for a bunch of different groups. This is kind of more exciting, and also more scary, because every client has a different style, and things they like and hate, and you have to keep track of it all.

Copy editing is the only place I am persnickety. Have you ever noticed that? How incongruous my job is, considering how the rest of me isn’t quite…attentive to detail? Words are the one thing I care about enough to care, if that makes any sense.

In the meantime, my bed hasn’t been made since I threw out my Flicker.

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“June, what do you think is wrong with you, that you can just pull products like Flicker out of your ass?”

Well, one thing that’s likely wrong with me is m’shredded anus.

Anyway.

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Here is the only photo I took yesterday, and it is decidedly emo, and I just have to sit around and wait to not feel emo, and frankly it’s a Flicker in my ass.

The good news is, I asked a guy at work who is forever traipsing off to dance classes where he GOES to said classes, and I’m going to ballet with him on Monday next. I will become a prima ballerina and live on black coffee and cigarettes and you will all not notice my advanced age and I will take to tutus. “Oh, god, here comes June, wearing that goddamn tutu to take out her trash.”

I will be Desmond Tutu.

I will be tutu much.

I took ballet as a child, you know, for several years. At least to me it felt like several years. It was probably, you know, three. I recall my instructor wore winged eyeliner, and her assistant had little white asterisk designs on her otherwise clear nail polish.

I thought they were both phenomenal.

And I’m certain I was headed to New York with my tutus and my eating disorder, except the winter I was 10, even though my mother denied this until I got out my diary and proved her wrong, I got the chicken pox.

“You never had the chicken pox,” my mother said, last time I mentioned this.

I called my father. “Yeah, I remember you having the chicken pox, sure,” said my father.

My mother said he was wrong. My mother has also said, and I quote, “The dictionary is wrong.”

This is why it’s good I have kept a journal, or back then a diary, pretty much constantly since 1975. So I was able to pull out my yellow Hollie Hobbie number and read about my personal struggle with chicken pox.

The point is, my brush with the pox meant I missed a week of ballet, and the week I missed was, like, THE MOST CRUCIAL WEEK EVER, because that was when they told us we were all headed to toe shoes, but we had to learn all the positions and their French names, not just, you know “second position,” and in a few months, we were all headed to Detroit to take a test in order to climb that ladder to toe shoes and this sentence is not a run-on at all. How dare you?

So I get to class, faintly poxed from my recent ordeal that my own mother denied, and everyone’s all responding to French and pointing their toes, and I WAS BEHIND and instead of, oh, asking my winged instructor to spend four minutes with me after class and catch me up, I panicked and said, “I don’t want to do ballet anymore” and my parents, who’d been attending dance recitals since they threw away their leather strap and straight razor, said, “Okay, SURE!”

It was one of those snap decisions you later regret, which sums up my entire life.

How did I get on this topic, again? [scrolls up] Oh, right! Because I’m going to rekindle my passion for dance, and as we all know, I have a gift. You’ve seen the veeeedeos.

I also have a weekend coming up that is packed with the events. I have a goodbye party on Friday after work for a woman I dearly admired. She was very cool-headed. Enough said. She reminded me of Faithful Reader Fay, in both her looks and her attitude. Unlike Fay, she did not march over and take charge of my life, however. Anyway, she’s headed to another job, and I will miss her no-nonsense self.

Then Saturday day, The Poet and I are penciled in for a movie, the one where Idris Alpaca or whomever is stuck in the snow with Kate Winslett. One thing I would not mind is being stuck in the snow with Iris Aldolph or whatever his name is.

Also, you know how I’m sort of (HAH) into men of color? I failed to mention to you that I was, you know, seeing a man of color for a bit, and I hope it isn’t the last time I do so. While it did not last, it is something I can sorta check off my list, my list of things I always wanted to do, and like ballet, I’d like to return to that particular genre again one day.

I hope I won’t be confronted with some sort of Detroit test re this.

On Saturday night, I have a party to go to, and then on Sunday it is likely I will need to hole up here and decompress from all the people-ing. Open the door and see all the people. Close the door because drained.

I have to go, but before I do, I wanted to mention that my cousin Maria got a new kitten, a kitten the rest of my family is claiming has Steely Dan, well, qualities.

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See. It’d be funnier if this kitten were at a neighbor’s house doing this.

This is Maria’s daughter Anna, of “Aunt Katie, are you a lesbian?” fame. And the alleged Steely Dan spawn.

I love this Satanic video. Also, Maria’s BF isn’t too shabby, either. Maybe next up for me should be a man in his 30s.

Twenties! Aim high, June. Ballerinas can get any man.

I’d better frappe a té out of here, or some other very real ballet term.

Pad-a-thai,

Le June

Hint of beleaguered

As I was watching photos upload to my molasses-slow desktop, I realized I took enough pictures yesterday to pretty much tell the whole story of September 27, 2017. A day where nothing much really happened. Riveting, June. We’re compelled.

Read on!

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SD gotz this covered. heee. See wat Steeeleee do dere?

For the seven minutes he was home yesterday, Steely Dan took time to let me know what he thinks of my coffee. As if he hasn’t made that clear 86 other times. This was pretty much 24 hours ago! And look, you can see yesterday’s blog-not-blog post being written!

IMG_0585.JPGI went to work in the morning, as I am wont to do, and when I came home for lunch (Weight Watchers fettuccini alfredo, a stick of low-fat cheese. WOOOO!), Iris sat on my lap while I read. (There’s one of those take one/leave one book boxes in the park in my neighborhood, so when Edsel and I go on our walks, sometimes I’ll, you know, take or leave a book. This is an Anne Rivers Siddons or whatever her name is book. It’s okay. I don’t have the thing where all I want to do is read it. I love having that thing.)

IMG_0589.JPGEdsel was not feeling his best when I was home for lunch. I walked in to Heyyyy, here be ebrytheeng Edz eat lately, revisit!

I bought some pet stain remover not long ago, but then gave it to The Poet because of HER dogs, so I had to use old-school vinegar and water, but I think I got all evidence removed. Poor pathetic Eds. You know things are bad when he lies right on the floor like that. He’s generally more…fussy.

IMG_0599.JPGOne of the Alexes at work is growing her hair. She’s had it short like this for years, and announced yesterday she’s giving growing it out a try. “Oooo, can I document it for my not blog?” I asked her, and guess who’s sick of me. Is it everyone at work?

“Sure,” she said, hint of beleaguered in her tone.

STAY TUNED!

IMG_0604.JPGAnother Alex is getting married this weekend, to a guy who also works at work. They didn’t meet at work–they just ended up working at the same place. Anyway, yesterday was their last day till they get married, so we threw them a little surprise, and I like how I say “we” like I had anything to do with it.

In keeping with my tradition, I did show up and try to take credit for every nuance of said celebration.

“I made this champagne,” I said.

No one at work likes me. That was always funny till Happy Hourgate, and now we’re all, Wow, really no one DOES like June.

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No one does.

It was a fun way to end the day, and I proposed we have champagne and Frank Sinatra EVERY day at 4:55.

IMG_0612.JPGBecause look at the mirth.

When I got home, I had dinner (Weight Watchers turkey. MMMMMM!) and was just settling down with a bad movie, when Ned called. “I just had dinner with my dad and brother at the restaurant near you. Do you mind if I come by?”

That restaurant delivers, I’d like to add. AND IT IS DELICIOUS.

Also, weight loss plateau right now. Which has zero to do with the pizza and also Mrs. Freshley’s Vanilla Cakes.

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rully??

Edsel was feeling distinctly better, and was so beside himself at Ned being over that I told him he could jump up on the couch.

You didn’t have to ask HIM twice.

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edz neber new happy before
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happeeeee

Ned doesn’t have his eyes closed; he’s petting Iris, who is also on the couch. No one likes coming to my house of animals.

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House of animals, now with June’s Nose®

IMG_0627.JPGSo that about sums it up. Ned left and I went to bed and now I’m here, in the cowboy robe, that I see SD has further chewed. I also noted last night that Steely Dan has chewed the corner off one of my new pillows I got for the couch.

Now here I am the next day, and WHO KNOWS what adventures await. Will Alex’s hair be Rapunzel today? Will someone else serve champagne? Will Steely Dan sit on my lap and make biscuits? Are biscuits a lot of WW points?

You’ll just have to tune in tomorrow.

In real life, vowels are free

Even though I have allegedly set it up so that when I plug my phone into my computer–and there’s something anyone said, ever, in 1947–my photos should pop right up, they never do. They USED to. I’ve no idea what’s gone wrong. Continue reading “In real life, vowels are free”

Pain Bryant

I can’t really go into my headache study all that much, because of confidentiality and so on. But–and please don’t ask for more clarification, I can FEEL you all asking for more clarification–at the beginning of the study, I had to do a pain-threshold series of tests. Yes, they inflicted pain on me. Continue reading “Pain Bryant”

Sweet Home Alabama

Yesterday, I went with Ned to look at houses for him to rent. As  you know, if you’ve kept your Big Book of June Events wide open–like your limbs, Trampy–you’ll recall that Ned’s landlord–gaylord–is moving to D.C. and for some reason feels the need to sell the house Ned rents, the house we used to live in together.

There was a short sentence. Anyway, the gaylord offered to sell it to Ned, for about 11 million dollars over what he should have probably asked for it.

Continue reading “Sweet Home Alabama”

Try to guess the swear word I use when I hit Publish then realize I’ve not added a title.

I knew I was going to a party yesterday afternoon, so I planned my ensemble in my mind so that I could do my freelance work in peace. I showered, did my hair, put on my kabuki makeup

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Fuck with me and die

Continue reading “Try to guess the swear word I use when I hit Publish then realize I’ve not added a title.”