“They tellin’ me I ain’t shit, it’s quite true; constipation takes patience.”
So, I’m sittin’ here, tryin’ to figure out if I give a fanga in the middle and a soy sauce packet about the fact that XX and XY are currently givin’ me the stank face, right? Y’know, like I’m all afraid of them and shxt?
Welp. I just decided that I give neither a fanga in the middle, a soy sauce packet or a four day old egg roll as I throw them my patent pending “don’t forget I’ll be choosing your nursing home so act accordingly” side eye from my table.
*sigh*
I’ve got a headache that’s only being exacerbated by the fact that
1) Bowling alleys are generally loud and Royal Scot is proving to be no exception. Yay.
2) My freakin’ mp3 player has decided to play nothing but songs that remind me of He Who Must Not Be Named which makes me sad and in turn irritates the eff outta me. I hate being sad, dammit.
3) Erm…hello. I’m stuck with The Chromosonal Donors and The Sibling. I’d rather be somewhere enjoying a nice bowl of organic kitty litter.
Oh, how could I forget that
5) XY has recently taken to wearing his wedding ring and referring to XX as his wife…
*blows apple cinnamon flavored chunks*
Jesus be an electric fence all around his obviously addled state of mind every day. And that’s all I have to say on that.
As I’m so fond of telling anyone who’ll listen, I’ll be discussing my multitude of issues with a therapist one day soon. You’ll thank me for not elaborating further when you see my therapy bills; believe me.
♥
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