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out there with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair

March 2, 2012

Happy Friday, mine hamsters!

(musical break: Jesus H Christ, I have just discovered the most mind blowing soul searing electric frag I’ve heard in ages: Jimmy Page and the Black Crowes. Check it out. Disappoint they will not).

Anyhow. Happy Friday, and all that. In an almost unbelievably short time we will all be sitting around with our gorgeous new sage green suede boots up on dive bar booth seats, knocking back gin and tonics with triple lime, sending a constant stream of contentment and scintillating conversation into the surrounding atmosphere. Or maybe that will just be me. You are maybe dreadfully jealous of my new sage green suede boots. You are maybe right. They are pretty gorgeous, and they make me look like a gentleman lumberjack’s nimble footed sweet sass, and they were both at the bins at the same time which is nothing short of a miracle and a whole hell of a lot short of two dollars. HA.

Ok, one more boots gloat. HA.

~fin~

In other delicious news, I was home sick on Wednesday, lying in bed feeling yea verily nigh unto death, albeit competing manfully in a strenuous Wonder Years marathon, when an unexpected knock came at my door. I bleared out to answer it and lo, it was the working class hero of days of dreams, that long expected savior, the Johnny come lately dishwasher repairman. My brain unfogged just long enough for restraint to suggest I not quite fling my arms all friendlylike around him in unwarranted display of gratitude and affection, and I pointed him in the direction of my afflicted appliance and wandered back to bed. He tinkered and such and sat on his upside down work bucket and hummed things to himself, which I found efficient and charming, and he fixed a thing or so and ran my dishwasher through all its cycles and he pronounced it clean and clear and fully functioning. And god saw that it was good, and I ran an instant unnecessary load of dishes and lay in bed thrilling with the glory of my victory by proxy. Take that, disappointing dishwasher; chew on that, oh most apathetic of apartment complex managers: my dishes are getting CLEAN.

Also I think I have had it up to here with Kevin Arnold. He was cute at first but he keeps on being a stupid dumbass and I think someone kind of needs to travel back in a fabulous mid seventies baby blue mustang and kick his ass just the smallest bit with the world’s most beautiful sage suede boot. Also the narrator can just get over himself already. Your epiphanies are not that profound, dude, especially when you have had the same one every episode for six seasons straight and continue to forget it halfway through each. Why yes indeed. That kettle is certainly a most charming shade of raven.

Peace out from the wild side. This is apparently what you get when your author is too busy breaking it on down office chair style to Led Zeppelin to really focus on your storytime. Gummy worms all around. Triangle flags for everyone.

I am

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