Giles ,'Lies My Parents Told Me'
[NAFDA] Spike-centric discussion. Lusty, lewd (only occasionally crude), risqué (and frisqué), bawdy (Oh, lawdy!), flirty ('cuz we're purty), raunchy talk inside. Caveat lector.
and endorphins are good for my drug-deprived brain.
Yes. Very true. Despite all the pain, I've been trying really hard to still do some walking, because while it makes it worse in the moment, it's better in the long-run. Or, that's what I keep telling myself.
What's with the sigh, man? My foot is not meant to taste like kibble!
But dogs just don't stop believin'...
What's with the sigh, man? My foot is not meant to taste like kibble!
But dogs just don't stop believin'...
The sigh was just comedy GOLD. Like "This time, THIS time, her foot will taste like kibble AND she won't mind if I gnaw it off....EUGH!!!! That's not kibble! WHY IS MY LIFE SO HARD?!?!?"
Dogs, man. They live in hope.
But dogs just don't stop believin'...
Heaven IS just a funky moose to them.
I think my sash mught say 'You be nice and I'll be nice, kay?'
I have Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday off. Woohoo! DH's best friend is visiting from New York and we're going to show him round Cork. And the pubs. Mostly the pubs.
Twelve more minutes!
I had an idea for something else for my sash this morning that was pretty funny. I've now forgotten it.
Good morning.
Randomly, dog #1 came over and licked my foot once, sighed heavily, and laid down on his bed. What's with the sigh, man?
Mr. Peabody will sometimes just wander about the house taking a lick here and there in the hopes that the bathtub or the curtain has turned into cheese.
Oh, ibuprofen, how I love you. It holds the arthritis in my hands and knees in check. I'm off NSAIDS until my gum/sinus surgery Wednesday, and I'm gradually turning into the Tin Man without an oil can.
I'm at the old apartment with a stack of magazines and books. I just ordered Chinese food to be delivered, and I am vaguely contemplating cleaning.
Mr. Peabody will sometimes just wander about the house taking a lick here and there in the hopes that the bathtub or the curtain has turned into cheese.
What I really admire about Mr. Peabody is just how deep and true his hope runs -- from your tales, it sounds like he doesn't always give up after a single lick; sometimes he'll just eat the entire thing, on the off chance, no matter how long it takes, that the next bite will be cheese. And apparently there's no substance so unpromising that he will reject it out of hand. He's got pluck, that dog.