Faith ,'End of Days'
Off-topic discussion. Wanna talk about corsets, duct tape, or physics? This is the place. Detailed discussion of any current-season TV must be whitefonted.
Geoffrey Chaucer defends Britney:
She hath cleped her newest ballad “Yive moore unto me” by cause that it signifieth your avarice and your sclaundre of her, for all ye churles desiren is MOORE MOORE MOORE MOORE MOORE.
STOP YOUR SCLAUNDRES OF BRITNEY!
Thanks, guys. I'm a perfect cube age now!
Woe. It's morning again.
Our realtor called us last night. Apparently, the painting and repairs to the old house were not done as specified. Lots of problems that need to be corrected before we can get the house shown. Grrrr.
Good thing is that we haven't paid the contractors so we can make sure they do things right before we send the checks.
At this point, I want to just hand it over to the realtor and let her crack the whip.
At this point, I want to just hand it over to the realtor and let her crack the whip.
That seems like a very fair thing to do, in the circumstances -- and she's shown that she's keeping an eye on things being done right. Let her at 'em! (And good luck with the sale.)
Morning baby picspam: Dylan sitting up.
(I just love his "Yeeeeah, bitches!" expression there. He's such a little punk.)
Dylan is so cute! I can't believe how big he is already.
Oh, great picture. He's working that "Yo, bring it on world, I'm SITTING here" look.
Good luck with the contractors, Cashmere. I can't imagine trying to deal with all that long distance.
Go Dyl with the verticality!
Happy cubed, Hil!
Oh my GOD, why do I have to work? This seems unfair. Bad universe. No biscuit!
So I called my parents this weekend to wish them a happy anniversary, and got my dad on the phone. We chatted about my interview with Playboy. There's a conversation I never want to have again. I'd rank it under every phone call that's ended with me rushing to the hospital, that one time a friend of mine revealed that he had Dissociative Identity Disorder and then attempted to kill us both and I didn't know who to yell at to STOP THE FUCKING CAR OH MY GOD, that one time a friend communicated that he had you've-got-to-be-shitting-me actual clinical Delusions of Grandeur and then tried to make out with me, and somewhere above that one time where our local skeevy quack of a doctor misdiagnosed my seasonal allergies as "the kissing disease".