Donna should have stabbed a hobo. It would be easier than reading all the drivel in my blog.

So today I have another guest blogger. And she's a bit off. Kinda like me but different. She told me to use that title up there, and I said great. Then an hour later I realized she said my blog was drivel. Which I think is something bad and Britishy cuz my unicorn, Lord Burgess Atwood, says it all the time.  But I am too lazy to look it up, and Burgee wouldn't tell me, so I left it in there. See...what this particular guest blogger did was sit down and read pretty much my entire blog from beginning to end. Over 2 years worth of stuff. Really really weird stuff. So if that woman can do that in one day and make it out alive and at least halfway sane? I'l let her title this post however she wants to. Cuz I'm high on narcotics right now and that's just how I'm gonna roll. Enjoy.

Hi, Patti Sheeple. How goes it?

I'm Donna and I'm everyone's favorite crappy internet housewife. How do? (insert big cheesy grin and enthusiastic waving here) When it comes to housewifery, I sure ain't no Donna Freakin' Reed. I write a blog about how much I hate this stinking job, how much I suck at it, and the struggles involved chasing the elusive American Dream...which kind a brings me here writing a post for Patti the one armed bandit. The blog writing part that is, not the pathetic attempt at picket fences and dustless shelves.

So, If I'm a crappy housewife, what am I doing here? Well, frankly I harassed her about the posting until she said yes.  I can be very persuasive...

Now please note that I was supposed to write this a few days ago, but I am easily distracted by this thing called the Book of Face. It's crippling addiction.  It often consumes with with converstations and delights that would not normally happen in my housewife life of sheer udder boredom and keeps me at my computer or with my attention otherwise glued to my phone. I fell in love with this insane place, the FaceF@ck as I so endearingly call it, shortly after I started my blog and soon created my own little corner of the internets the I refer to simply as "my kitchen". Before that I had nothing to do with Facebook, I didn't keep a profile, never had even seen the damn thing, and I didn't care.  Today, this kitchen, this kitchen that I adore, love and defend beyond all necessity, often stands in the way of my household duties, my life and my writing responsibilities mearly because I. cannot. walk. away! Argh. These women are compelled to share some of their deepest housewife secrets with me! It's incredible the things I know about my readers sometimes... and yes I love it. People talk to me all. day. long.

As was the past few days, excuse me, week. I swear my phone never stops buzzing sometimes and those little red numbers light up on the Facebook world get higher and higher every day.  I can't stop. I'm addicted to the constant converstation like my mother is addicted to Diet Coke, like Lohan is addicted to regular coke. With the book of face... I am never alone with the voices in my head. I'm sure it and my blog are the biggest reasons my husband is still alive today. Damn redneck.

Anywhoot.

Patti and I agreed on Thursday that I would write a post for the following week. Friday was a busy day for me so i didn't really get to any writing as I was preparing my house and my husband, Captain Oblivious, for my first over night departure since I got totally shitfaced the weekend before my birthday at my old bartending gig...T-raSheD! Holy crap. Effed the f@ck up. Really.  But that was in January...and before that since...I don't know...NEVER.   But this past Friday for the first time in months, almost a year really, I went out as an adult without my 2 year old and without my redneck at my side...just me...at a party...a fabulous birthday party with fabulous people...and a fabulous glass of bourbon...and a...wait for it...wait for it....a  freakin' Rainbow Hello Kitty Cake! Seriously. 

Look at this thing! It's Ruddonkulous! 

 No seriously...look at this frickin' cake in all it's glory!

Needless to say I was very distracted by the fanfrickingtabulous cake, and the delicious bourbon... so much that I wasted (and totally loved every minute of it) most of my Saturday sleeping in and enjoying morning tea and crumpets at my dear friend the cake maker's house. So essentially Saturday was shot for blog writing also.  

Then came Sunday and well, that is typically family day for us...not this Sunday in particular, but still...typically.  This specific Sunday began with a text message from my sMother-in-Law that absolutely made me blow my freakin' stack! 

>>>BOOM!<<<

 Which of course set the stage for the rest of the day and no blog writing was done (WARNING: Shameless self promotion... if you are interested in me blowing my stack in the form of text to my MIL check out my most recent blog postings at www.mydirtykitchenfloor.blogspot.com).

Somewhere over the weekend I got completely distracted by the Paul Rudd Revolution by which Patti herself told me to join...Honestly, I didn't really have much of an idea of who Paul Rudd was until I met Patti here on the internets.  I had to look him up, as I did Justin Lee Bartha, but that's ok, I did at least know who Jason Bateman is because well, frankly I find him delightfully hilarious and very attractive in a suit....rawr!  Sorry Rudd, it's just the truth (at least I'm in your nation because I stand with Patti).  It doesn't matter who the hell Rudd is, I like follow the Patti sheeple to see what the hub bub is all about typically, then I strike! 

BOO YAH!

 Yes. I totally wasted time to make this pic when I could've been writing a post of Patti...it's just another way to spread my legs here on the book of face.  Who knows...it may lead to something..like more friends and followers and more lost time. Yes. Yes. I am a facebook whore and I am not ashamed.

Monday there was a showdown on my facebook wall that I had me consumed for most of the day...that and the frickin' laundry that I had ignored all week.  The laundry, in fact, became another distraction when I created a fun exercise on the facef@ck, I mean Facebook, in honor of the hatred of the housewifery chore by talking some of the ladies in my "kitchen" to post their laundry stacks, piles, and baskets on my facebook wall. What a fun game. I think everyone involved came out feeling better about their poor laundry skills....especially me. It will soon become a great blog post.

Speaking of blog posts...Tuesday came and it was high time I wrote a post for my own blog and do some grocery shopping...and so I did. I also spent much of the day trying to...ohhhm, oooohhhhhmmmm, oohhhhmmmm...become one with Patti by reading her blog from beginning to end...Well, I ended up shuffling around a bit, got a good flavor for her style and realized I could never be one with Patti, even for a moment to write this damn post.  She is lovely and blonde, walks outside AND on a treadmill for EXERCISE! Seriously. What the hell? She is also clean and organized...something I will likely never be...though I felt a level of comfort knowing that she went to Target with a pair of her back of drawer monthly stash of panties on her back. Excellent.

Well, here it is Wednesday and I'm still distracted buy the damn Rudd Revolution and the facef@ck. My kitchen is a mess, my ass hurts from so much chair time, the laundry is again in need of folding and my 2 1/2 year old kid colored my beautiful precious stainless steel stove, the back door of the rental property in which we live, my blonde wood end tables, the front window, and my antique bedside table. Sigh. I need a nap.

Do you think Patti would mind if I waited until tomorrow to write her post?  I'm sure...yawn...by tomorrow I can think of a great post about unicorns folding laundry in a room full of tiny sweet animals wearing tutus while farting and sharing pictures of Patti with underwear attached to her back at Target.  Or maybe I could just write about prolapsed vaginas. Seems to be a showstopper...

Oh. Snap. It's already Thursday. I am so screwed.

Cheers, 

Donna Freakin' Reed
aka Donna Freeakin' Reed
aka Donnareedonlsd

...just living the American Dream and totally sucking at it...

Message from Mom-Brain: You non-Facebook followers don't know about The Rudd Revolution yet since I haven't been able to type about it yet due to arm carnage. But I'll fill you in next week. Carnage be damned. But FYI: I am president elect of a revolution Rudd started for himself to compete with one Jason Bateman started for himself because they are like 13 year old boys. And since I am like a 13 year old boy as well, I am involved. Oh. And it's all cuz I became FB friends with Rudd and Bateman and a few others a few weeks ago. Shit got crazy pretty fast and I have so much to tell you. Later.

I'm all effed up so here is blog from a guest blogger who has two hands.

Since I can only type with my left hand, or to be more precise, one finger of my left hand, I have chosen to have a few guest bloggers this week. This not only allows me time to let my good arm heal, but also time to de-tox from my pain meds which I have discovered actually make me act kinda normal. Ish. Normal-ish. I think narcotics probably make most people act like weirdos, but I do that naturally, and the meds seem to kinda level me out. Which some people (The Hub) may like, but I just think sucks balls. So now I'm de-toxing and exercising my arm and trying to get back to maximum weirdness and hobo ass-kicking-ness.

And there's soooo much going on that I want to blog about, so let's just hope I heal up fast.

But for now, my first guest blogger is Tom Morgan who writes a blog called "Unconventional Wisdom". Enjoy.
-----------------------

I love this photo. Every time I look at it I will remember the first time I pushed my son on a swing. And the day I tried, and failed, to teach my daughter how to pee outside.

Shortly after I took it, my daughter informed me of nature’s call.

"Daddy, I have to pee."

"Okay, let's go," I said. 

I plucked the little guy out of his swing, put him in his carrier and we walked to the bathroom.  The men’s room at this park is among my favorites. It is huge and always clean- as bathrooms go, this is a safe one in which to set down a baby in his carrier and a pleasant enough place to stand around and wait for a kid to pee.  And I knew we were going to be the only people in there; the park was empty but for us.  My mood changed when I tried to open the door.

"Sonofabitch."

"What?"

"Oh, sorry… How bad do you have to go? The bathroom is locked."

"I don't have to go."

“Why… oh, never mind.”

This shouldn’t have surprised me- my daughter always wants to go to the bathroom when we're in public. And not always because she actually needs to use it. She is something of a bathroom critic. She loves to check them out and direct me where to stand, what to do, what NOT to touch.  And, if necessary, what not to smell.  "Okay, Daddy, put baby brother there. You stand here. Don't touch that daddy potty. It's dirty. I'm going in that room. You wait okay daddy? It's stinky in here, close your nose."

Still I wanted to know what kind of afternoon this was going to be.  "Are you sure? We could run home, go potty, and come right back to the park."

"I don't have to go."

"Okay."

Ten minutes later I knew she had lied to me.  The pee-pee shuffle was impossible to miss. We were not going to make it home. Okay, think fast dad. We're alone. There are good trees here for her to lean against. And it doesn't matter anyway. She is going to pee. And soon.

"Okay, here's what we're going to do. We're going to go potty outside! Won't that be fun?”

"Here?"

"Yes. Well, sort of. Over by that tree."

"I love that tree, daddy!"

"I know you do sweetie. That's perfect."

"Now. Here's what you do. Pull down your shorts. And bend down. I'll hold your shoulders. Bend your knees. No! More! Bend your knees more. MORE! Damn.  It's okay, honey. We'll practice more on our neighbor’s deck. Well, let's go home and change. Pull up your shorts, honey."

"No, daddy. They're all wet.  Eew, my shoes are wet, too."

"Yeah, I see that."

I could probably get her to pull those shorts up. But it'll be a fight. Will someone show up before I win it? The park is empty now. I think we could make the truck.

"Okay, new plan:  Give me your panties and shorts, I’ll carry them. We're going to run to the truck. Put on your shoes."

"NO. They're all wet."

"Honey, you are going to wear your shoes. We are not heathens."

Now, as we ran across the park, were my gym shorts- pockets weighed down with keys, wallet and phone and hands too full to pull them up- creeping towards the ground with every step so that by the time we reached the truck my daughter was naked from the waist down (but for shoes) and my shorts were around my ankles? Boy that would be a memory.

-----------------------------

Tom is a writer and stay-at-home dad. He writes some okay stuff on his blog and Facebook page. The really funny stuff he saves for his diary. His penis' name is The Truth.

http://temorgan.blogspot.com/

Dear Right Arm, I really really need you around to help me drink beer cuz Jason O'Mara hasn't bought me my damn beer can helmet yet, so if you get cut off I'm totally screwed.

So I'm having shoulder surgery tomorrow. Finally. If it seems like I've been talking about it for forever, it's totally because I have. I have dragged this thing out for months and months.

I just typed moths and moths instead of months and months. And I actually took the time to change it for you guys. I know you people know me and you do a really kick-ass job following along with every weird thing I say or strange tangent I go on. Or at least you pretend you do. Out of fear. But I'm thinking if I said I've dragged this out for moths and moths you guys might be a tad confused. Or maybe not. I don't know anymore. Cuz you guys are weird. But maybe you'd know I meant months. Or maybe you'd think I actually did drag my arm out for moths. Ya know, to show the moths I have an arm. Like, "Na-na-ne-boo-boo, I have an arm and you don't! And I know you fly and flying is awesome, but flying into light fixtures to die is totally stupid." And maybe I don't fly, but at least I don't do that. I do, however, get easily distracted by light. Or anything shiny for that matter. And if I did have wings I might actually -if I'd been drinking- fly into one. I mean, sometimes when I'm at my desk writing a blog, I see a flash of light or a shiny thing and I wander off to find out what it is. Then see the pantry and stop for a snack. Then see The Cat and do an awesome dance for her. Then see the backyard rabbit and try to feed it a carrot. Then wander to the neighbor's house just to see what's up.

So actually, I might really be kinda like a moth. So nevermind.

Anyways, as you all know I am dreading this surgery because (a) surgery sucks, and (b) surgery never ever EVER goes well for me. And like I said before, my doctor just had a baby last week and is most-likey severely sleep deprived and totally ready to malpractice the shit outta me. Or he might possibly be very well-rested cuz sometimes newborn babies are kinda comatose. And sometimes new baby daddy's let the new mommy's do all the work and their sleep patterns don't change at all. Who's to know? I'm just trying to be prepared for the worst. That's how I roll.

So today I've been trying to do all the things I won't be able to do with one nearly useless left arm, like laundry, dusting, vacuuming, note writing, organizing The Boy for school, grocery shopping, flipping people off, beating up hobos, and writing a blog.

And normally throwing back a few beers would be near the top of that list. But I haven't been allowed to drink for the past week because of the stupid surgery. Which is ridiculous. And I think that rule may be something that my doctor made up just to try to re-hab me. Like he's Dr. Drew or something. Which he's not. Dr. Drew is a silver fox, and I would totally fake a crack addiction and prostitution problem just to let him try to re-hab my sweet ass. But my doctor is not a silver fox. He's a guy who I am pretty damn sure is younger than me. And his nickname in med school was Mattie-Burger. Which he doesn't know that I know. But I have connections. And I know. So before my surgery tomorrow I plan to write in Sharpie on my arm: "You F@ck up you DIE, Mattie-Burger!" Just in case.

And by the way...for those of you who aren't on my FB page, I'll have you know that I got (almost) brutally face raped by a flying squirrel last week. So after tomorrow I won't be able to protect myself like this:

So I really doubt I can go on any walks with Cathy for awhile. At least until she takes some kind've Squirrel Rape Prevention courses so she will be ready to save me. I heard they offer those at the local Y. So I'm really hoping she gets on it. Pronto.

And since I'm pretty damn positive that I'm gonna get my arm chopped off tomorrow, I'd like to share a collage of some recent good times me and my arm have had together. While you look at the photos, sing The Golden Girls theme out loud:

And I want you all to know that I even if (when) my arm gets amputated, I will continue to blog and Facebook. I'll just do it with even more misspellings than usual. If that's possible. Cuz I'll be typing with my toes. Like that chick in that Joni movie did in the 70's. Except she was paralyzed from a diving accident. And she used her mouth. Not her feet. Which I won't do because (a) I'm usually either talking or have food in my mouth, and (b) My toes are almost as long as regular peoples fingers so it would totally be a waste to not use them.

But that's how much I love you people. Or maybe it's how much of an attention whore I am. It's definitely one of those.

And Facebookers: I will be updating you Wednesday morning as to any important goings on at the hospital. And hopefully you will hear from me after surgery. If I have a right hand and The Hub doesn't pay the anesthesiologist to kill me.

And finally, one last thing:  Aside from a really obnoxiously large "sling" that looks like some rejected Robocop body part, I have to carry around a big ass igloo cooler that has tubes attached that go to a cuff that goes around my shoulder to keep it cool. And it was ugly. And it made me feel like I was selling lemonade on the corner (which actually sounds kinda fun if I'm gonna be totally honest here). And since The Hub won't hire my friend Jana who is a real nurse to be my freakin' nurse, I turned the cooler into a nurse. A male nurse. From the 70's. Who's gay. So I won't be embarrassed getting sponge bathed by him and stuff. And his name is Nurse Jeffrey Jefferson:

And he has a sweet-ass mustache. But he doesn't wear pants. Which is fine with me since I probably won't be wearing pants either.

Russia: If I move there Sarah Palin will be able to see me from her house. And that's just all kinds of creepy.

So The Hub came home from work one day last week and said "What do you think about Saint Petersburg, Russia?" And I said "I don't." And he said "Maybe you should Google it." And I said "Why?" Assuming, of course that maybe they have an abundance of tiny animals or an entire city of little people or a big-ass Unicorn Ranch or a castle made out of PEZ and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups or something like that. But The Hub said "We have some projects going on there at work and it seems like someplace that would be interesting to move to."

Yes. Russia.

So I Google "Saint Petersburg Russia, tiny animals, tiny people, candy castle, unicorns," and you know what I get? Nothing related in any way to tiny animals, tiny people, or candy castles. There is, however, something called "Unicorn Trails". And I got all excited until I clicked on it and realized it is just horseback riding and they are totally false advertising and trying to draw you in with horrible terrible lies. It's a bunch of crap. The horses aren't even white, like unicorns. They're brown. Like turds. And the people riding them are wearing Cowboy Hats. Like posers. Russian posers. If you're gonna go calling yourself freakin' "Unicorn Trails" you better mother-effin' back that name up with at least some white horses, some glittery tin foil "horns", and some people wearing shiny crowns or those fancy headbands with little glittery bouncy crap on the ends of springs. Not stupid cowboy hats for f@ck's sake.

Russia.

As far as I can tell, no little things live in Russia. At all. Everyone's big. I think their babies even come out fully grown. And not even by C-Section. And everyone there has an accent that makes me think of the scarred-up bad guys from James Bond movies who want nothing more than to throw you in shark tanks or pull your fingernails out.

Russia.

A few years ago I saw a movie about a bunch of Russian's called "Eastern Promises." It starred Viggo Mortenson. Viggo Mortenson is super-duper sexy, super-duper dangerous and super-duper yummy. But guess what? He's Danish. He was just pretending to be Russian. That, dear people, is called acting. And to be totally honest, ever since I saw him in that movie where he was having sex with Gwyneth Paltrow and then had a chance to murder her for money but didn't do it, I've kinda lost respect for him. Cuz most people would probably murder Gwyneth Paltrow for free. Or at least for a gift card to Applebees. But this dude passed up a chance to get paid huge money to do it. Which means he is very very stupid. But I digress.

In this movie, I learned that Russian's are hairy. They like track suits and gold chains. They like dress suits only if they are shiny. You can't understand what the hell they're saying. They are mean. They like to smoke. They like to be in the mob. And, oh yeah...they like to kidnap girls and sell them into prostitution. Which I am not super-thrilled about. At all.

And I know that I'm possibly generalizing here. But this is alls I know. Except for the fact that Russian's like to beat us at Gymnastics and the women often look like that female football coach on Glee. Or Beulah Ballbreaker from Porky's. Which means that I'm almost certainly gonna get kidnapped and sold into sex slavery due to the fact that I am probably cuter than most of the women there. And that's not even conceited. It's just a fact. Probably. Remember that Masseuse I told you guys about a long time ago? The one who started spanking my naked butt for no apparent reason and I was too scared of her Andre The Giant hands to try and stop her? Russian. So The Hub will definitely have to hire me a bodyguard. And have a tracking device implanted under my skin. And pay for me to take even more Karate and Krav Maga lessons so I can be super prepared to kick some Russian Mobster ass. And I guess I would need to start digging Vodka drinks instead of margaritas. And do they even have access to avocados over there? And what the hell would become of my Babycado Orchard?

There are childless avocado loving Americans depending on me, dammit!

And guess what I read about the weather in Saint Petersburg. It's cold. It's wet. It's humid, And in May through July the sun only goes down for an hour each night. The good part about that is the fact that you are much less likely to get bitten by a Vampire. But the bad part is everything else. In fact, the only positive thing I can see about moving to Russia would be that I could get more use out of my Beaker hat. And I loves my Beaker hat.

I also have the distinct feeling that my woman mustache will not be out of place in Russia. I might just blend right on in.

This post is randomer than normal because I've been a lazy wanker and haven't posted in a week and just have to catch you up on a bunch of stuff that is in no way connected. I wouldn't even read it if I were you. And I know randomer isn't a word. That's why I used it, yo.

Today is a scattered kinda day. Which I know is a big-ass shock. Kinda like when you found out Boy George was indeed a boy. So if you don't like reading my more disconnected postings, you should stop reading NOW.

And for those of you who are still here, you guys are awesome and I'm so glad we got rid of those goody-goody nerds who can't keep up with normal things like Wheat Babies and Babycado Trees and Unicorn Bikes and Time Burgers and P-Hugs and super-basic stuff like that.

I mean, it's really quite simple.

Anyway.... last time I blogged I was getting ready to have a tooth pulled. And since I'm a super wuss about all things dental, they totally gassed me up. And they left me in the chair for awhile for it to work it's magic. The tv was on. I had my iPhone. And I posted a few things on FB and took the following notes:

-Put birds in sterilizer. Assholes. Freakin' birds. Keep outta my hair. Sterilize them all. Dentist said so.
-James Spader. WTF? Hot asshole. Pretty Pink. Sexy. Growed up bad. Glasses. Doughy.
-Kathie Lee. Yoda? Hoda. Don't let her sing Hoda. You're bigger than her. Take bitch down.
-Cats and maxi pads. Why? My cat no period. No puberty. Still bitchy drama.
-Teeth are assholes.
-I'm a good girl. Don't f@ck with me. Satb. (I think that's supposed to be stab)
-Why does that door go? Where? Alley? Hobo? Hobos have no teeth. Usually. Stupid gummy hobos.
-Like a scuba. Sharks not.
-Beautiful mojo tooth.

And I think all of that is really quite self-explanatory. Not to mention deep as well as geniusy.

SEE?

And the Dental Assistant told me my tooth was beautiful and she let me bring it home. Which is good news. Cuz I'm pretty sure it has at least part of my mojo in it, and I was afraid that once it was gone I would turn into a nerd or something. Like The Hub. So now I wanna make it into a piece of jewelry so I can keep it with me all the time. And at first I thought it would make a nice necklace, but then one of my FB people said to make a ring. And that totally made more sense because the only jewelry I regularly wear are rings. So I was explaining to The Hub about the jewelry and my reasoning for wanting the ring vs the necklace and after I went in depth about the pros and cons of each and what kind of setting would best showcase it, he looked at me with that look that says "Oh my God...you're a dumb-ass" and he said to me "You're talking about this like you're actually gonna wear it." Duh. Who wouldn't? (a) It's a mother-frickin' tooth. (b) It's beautiful. The Dental Assistant said so. And (c) It contains at least 42% of my Mojo. Wearing it is really a no-brainer.

Sometimes I worry about that man.

Another thing that happened recently, is that The Boy was taking photos of people with his 3DS because it turns your photograph into a Mii. And everyone else had normal Mii's that resembled their photos. Then this happened:

And I realized that the 3DS can really, REALLY see me. And what it sees is that I have the soul of a black man. Which is part of the reason I dance so well. And can rap my ass off. And I have always said that I was once a black man who died in a scuba diving accident. I remember it clearly. So this DS is like some kind of Psychic that totally shows you who you used to be. And who you are inside. Either that or it sensed my special connection with my Pilates instructor, Phillip. Because it kinda looks like him:

And remember when I went to Missouri in July and my friend "forgot" to put my giant pickle in the cooler for our float trip because she was too busy jonesin' for some Skoal while I sang a rendition of that Joey Baby song form the 90's which was not only awesome, but about addiction. I think it was about addiction. I mean, I could totally be wrong. I admit it took me years to figure out what She Bop or Turning Japanese meant. But I'm pretty good at deciphering story-type songs. Like that one the fat half of Heart sang about raping a hobo in the rain and getting all knocked up on purpose. And I'm pretty sure that Joey song was about someone trying to get their loved one to stop chewing Skoal. Anyways...after I bitched about her punishing me by leaving Mr. Pickle in the hot car and totally ruining my float down the Meramec River, she sent me this as an apology:

That's a whole frickin' case of Mr. Pickles. So I'm gonna forgive her.  At least until I  eat all these pickles. Then I'll get fired up again and bitch and moan until she sends me another case. I have a feeling Imma be hooked up with pickles for quite some time.

And remember my other float trip friend? The one who only poops twice a month or something and lied to me and Skoal woman about The Goaticorns? I'm almost ready to forgive her too. Cuz she just started working as a caretaker for an elderly couple who - get this - are the freakin' grandparents of none other than Wheat Baby Daddy's wife! Buckle your seatbelts people. We are infiltrating the shit outta this whole thing. We now have a spy in place to get Wheat Baby photos. DNA samples. Whatever we need. And if the constipated girl can pull this off, I'll forgive her for the whole Goaticorn hoax. Probably.


And I probably have more unimportant stuff to catch you guys up on, but after that last paragraph I stopped writing for 45 minutes so I could look at my split ends, talk to The Cat about her gas issues, and sing her a song I wrote about digestion. Then I had a long conversation with my house ghosts about proper kitchen etiquette. Since they left cabinet doors and drawers open yesterday while - I assume - trying to bake me a Thank You cake for being so awesome and trying to get them equal rights:

And I'm starting to realize that those of you who are not on my FB page are probably very confused right now. And that's to be expected, and nothing to feel bad about. At all. You just miss a lot. Probably cuz you're lame-asses who are not on my FB page. 


But anyways my point was that in the last 45 minutes I have totally lost focus on writing this blog which totally means that I need to go to bed.  And this isn't really much of an ending but I am mega-tired and confused. Maybe one of my house ghosts glamored me like the vampires on True Blood do. Either that or The Cat's farts have poisoned me. Both are pretty damn possible.


I told you this was gonna be random.