I know. I suck. I was supposed to post something interesting yesterday, but alas, I could find no time. We had to go to Canton and spend my big bucks. Oh yes, don’t be jealous. We bought a $30 phone card for Lil’ Miss (I refuse to put her on our cell phone plan. Do you think I’m stupid or something?), a Little People farm set for Baby (they’re so much nicer now than when I was young) and a new shower head (one of those fancy schmancy rainmaker things). Woot! I know, I’m a big spender. Don’t hate me because of my wealth.
At any rate, I hate doing fix-it-up projects with TheMan. He is so not handy. Good grief, I say “Hold it here, then turn it there” so he holds it there and turns it here. He just could not get what I was trying to tell him. Of course, he’s full of shit. That’s just his way of getting out of doing the handyman thing. He’ll frustrate me until I start cussing and take over. I didn’t do that this time. I don’t have enough energy to care today. Sorry, guy, you’re actually going to have finish the project this time. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt and you’ll have a strange sense of accomplishment. Wallow in it. It’s good.
School starts again next week. My first class in on Monday- Personal Productivity Software, aka “Office Systems II”. Crap! This intro shit is for the birds. What? You say Monday is a holiday and so I must be full of something smelly? You’re right. I don’t have that class first. My very first class of the semester is Introduction to Human Communications- aka “Speech”- on Saturday morning from 8:00 to 10:30 am. I really tried to get out of that shit, but it’s required for every major at Kent. Bastards. Why do they hate me? Now, I’ll have to get up in front of people I don’t know and don’t care about and speak in my very childlike (and therefore completely non-respectable) voice. I hate that. I can,however, take comfort in the knowledge that I don’t speak like I have a mouthful of shit. By the way, I may have said at some point that I was going to brave my math course this semester. I lied. That shit can wait.
I was watching “Secrets of King Tut” on “National Geographic” the other night and was reminded of why I’m getting cremated when I die. Poor guy was dug up and examined and at some point they thought someone had actually stolen his penis. Good gods, why would anyone want Tut’s poor little penis? Well, turns out it was there afterall, but…really. Now, think of all those women (and Michael Jackson) who cannot let go of their youth. They get plastic boobs (not plastic, but you get the gist), plastic chins, plastic asses, etc. They’re still going to die, they’ll just look good when they do it. And in 3,000 years (assuming the world isn’t going to die before then) someone’s going to dig them up, examine them, and put them on display, all the while thinking how important these chicks must have been to have received such an honor as mummification (or whatever they will call it in 3,000 years when they’re digging these chicks up). No thanks. Burn me up and throw my ashes to the wind. Shit, flush my ashes down the toilet- I won’t care. But don’t put me on display. Please! Unless, of course, my you can guarantee that my tattoo will still be legible then. In which case, oh yes, show my off my stuff!
Spending money while showering with King Tut
I know. I suck. I was supposed to post something interesting yesterday, but alas, I could find no time. We had to go to Canton and spend my big bucks. Oh yes, don’t be jealous. We bought a $30 phone card for Lil’ Miss (I refuse to put her on our cell phone plan. Do you think I’m stupid or something?), a Little People farm set for Baby (they’re so much nicer now than when I was young) and a new shower head (one of those fancy schmancy rainmaker things). Woot! I know, I’m a big spender. Don’t hate me because of my wealth.
At any rate, I hate doing fix-it-up projects with TheMan. He is so not handy. Good grief, I say “Hold it here, then turn it there” so he holds it there and turns it here. He just could not get what I was trying to tell him. Of course, he’s full of shit. That’s just his way of getting out of doing the handyman thing. He’ll frustrate me until I start cussing and take over. I didn’t do that this time. I don’t have enough energy to care today. Sorry, guy, you’re actually going to have finish the project this time. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt and you’ll have a strange sense of accomplishment. Wallow in it. It’s good.
School starts again next week. My first class in on Monday- Personal Productivity Software, aka “Office Systems II”. Crap! This intro shit is for the birds. What? You say Monday is a holiday and so I must be full of something smelly? You’re right. I don’t have that class first. My very first class of the semester is Introduction to Human Communications- aka “Speech”- on Saturday morning from 8:00 to 10:30 am. I really tried to get out of that shit, but it’s required for every major at Kent. Bastards. Why do they hate me? Now, I’ll have to get up in front of people I don’t know and don’t care about and speak in my very childlike (and therefore completely non-respectable) voice. I hate that. I can,however, take comfort in the knowledge that I don’t speak like I have a mouthful of shit. By the way, I may have said at some point that I was going to brave my math course this semester. I lied. That shit can wait.
I was watching “Secrets of King Tut” on “National Geographic” the other night and was reminded of why I’m getting cremated when I die. Poor guy was dug up and examined and at some point they thought someone had actually stolen his penis. Good gods, why would anyone want Tut’s poor little penis? Well, turns out it was there afterall, but…really. Now, think of all those women (and Michael Jackson) who cannot let go of their youth. They get plastic boobs (not plastic, but you get the gist), plastic chins, plastic asses, etc. They’re still going to die, they’ll just look good when they do it. And in 3,000 years (assuming the world isn’t going to die before then) someone’s going to dig them up, examine them, and put them on display, all the while thinking how important these chicks must have been to have received such an honor as mummification (or whatever they will call it in 3,000 years when they’re digging these chicks up). No thanks. Burn me up and throw my ashes to the wind. Shit, flush my ashes down the toilet- I won’t care. But don’t put me on display. Please! Unless, of course, my you can guarantee that my tattoo will still be legible then. In which case, oh yes, show my off my stuff!
Ta-ta, my peeps!
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