journal
contact
credits
View My Stats, bitch.
WorkSlut has been on a rampage of partying lately and has already begun hounding us with "Whatcha gonna doo t'nite?" Since three nights this week have included cocktails, we'll probably stay home and drink for cheap. Which means that she'll show up at my front door and then she'll come in, talk about herself, drink all of the drinks and smoke all of the smokes. Not that I care about the smokes. But after a few cocktails, the greggers will make a suggestion to her that will make me pee on my couch: he's going to suggest that instead of artificial insemination, she just go ahead and get some big ol' boob implants. They're easier to take care of than a baby, and they haul in all kinds of attention, so I think it's a perfect plan. No more "Poor me," it's all about "Look at these!" And "Feel these!" And "I'll have to pay you all in ones; is that OK?"
This morning in my living room I swept up the remains of a tiny garden snake and 5 cockroaches, all of whom had been brought inside by the kittens. You know, to play with them. Til they're dead. Like you do.
Speaking of my front door: Yes I did. Above. More proof that I am a Clampett: My screen door just fell off this week. The top hinge just felt it had the right to die, so it did, leaving the door hanging on only by the bottom hinge, which had to be persuaded to let go. So my screen door is leaning against my front porch, no longer actually attached to anything. I have not acquired any patches of grey primer on my car and my car has never been on blocks in my driveway, so I still have a little distance to go before I can officially qualify as white trash. But I'm working on it. This weekend I plan to walk the dogs with pink sponge rollers in my hair.
2 comments so far