chicken scratch
Musings from the chicken queen
October 11 -- Electric Broom Vs. Hardwood Floor Vac
Which do you think is better? I cannot live
like this anymore. The floor is
constantly filthy with sawdust, crumbs, dust, dirt etc. I am having a
breakdown, so much so this morning that I was forced to take 1/2 a Xanax
just to calm down. I spent all Saturday cleaning furiously only to wake up
on Monday morning with a sticky, nasty floor. My throw carpets are ruined.
Seriously, you have seen an electric broom, how does it differ from a
hardwood floor vac, or is there a diff?
I must find a solution to this immediately, it is ruining my domestic bliss.
October 11 - Electric Broom Vs. Hardwood Floor Vac Part II
I don't have any money right now, so i will
make do
with the manual broom until i hit the jackpot. By the way, one of the
secretaries in the operating room at my hospital won $100,000 on a scratcher
ticket.
I just returned from the doctor. I went there with complaints of vague
stomach pain, heart palpitations, and the little lumpy thing under my left
armpit that feels like an enlarged lymph node. All weekend I spent obsessing
about my health problems, combing the internet looking for various ailments
that might describe my problem. At one point I decided that i had 6 months
to live, but then I took a Xanax and my outlook on life changed. The doc
said I am too stressed and that I should "see" someone otherwise he might
have to put me on head meds. Me, who solves all her problems with aspirin
and Echinacea. I don't think so. He also presented the interesting option
of going to see a GI doctor- the kind that love to put long tubes with
camera head in your orifices. I said no thanks- i am sure I will improve
soon with a little antacid. I wish you brought your ativan down with you,
now i will be forced to go to Student Health with an imaginary airplane
itinerary to obtain some head meds.
Going to the hosp tomorrow to do painful and invasive things to people. Be
in the office on Weds.
October 13, 2004 - How to Wash Your Hands
Dear Mr. Penis Fingers/Dick Digits/Poo Pinkies:
I want to point out that you were responsible for spreading at least 50 different infectious agents on over 200 surfaces, inanimate objects and other people’s integument (that’s skin, for you lay folk) today. You see, I was waiting in line for the restroom when I heard the toilet flush and not more than two seconds later you came lurching out with a big stupid grin on your pudgy face, your pudgy fingers lingering on the door handle waiting for me to grab it and swing it open for myself. Now, I know that during the 4 seconds between the flush, you pulling up your elastic waist banded pants and your flesh on that door handle, there was not a drop of running water to be heard for miles around, and despite my inspection of the premises, there wasn’t any of that lovely waterless hand sanitizer on the wall right next to the door, above the light switch that you thoughtfully turned off for the purpose of saving electricity for the three seconds that it took me to replace you as the occupant of the restroom that you so swiftly vacated, or were you merely trying to spread of more of yourself around by touching yet one more object that myself and countless others would also touch. While you were in a hurry to exit, you certainly took your time in there. Apparently during the 15 minutes that you occupied the restroom, you failed to notice the large white object with the slim silver fixtures directly across from your temporary throne- you know the one- that little plastic thing with duckies and flowers on it that contained some strange green liquid that said ANTIBACTERIAL SOAP on it. Perhaps you were straining so hard, your eyes became squinty and blurred and you couldn’t see more than half a foot in front of you. It certainly wasn’t because you were distracted by the reading material, because there was none to be found, other than the strange little container with the duckies and flowers and green liquid that said ANTIBACTERIAL SOAP and the funny little sign that said “HELP PREVENT THE SPREAD OF INFECTIOUS DISEASE: WASH YOUR HANDS AFTER USING THE RESTROOM”.
Mr. PF/DD/PP: Are you aware that your
genital and anal area contain over 500 known pathogens? Our famous friend E.
Coli lives there and so does our friend SARS. In fact, I will tell you a little
story about how SARS spread so fast. In that little place called China in a
region called the Guangdong Province (that’s GOO-AN-ONG DONG) people there
didn’t like to wash their hands after having a bowel movement. Nope, they use
their bare hands, rinse off with a little murky water, and get on with the
business of making gung hay fat choy. Actually, SARS is not spread by the
previously mentioned method, it was spread because they touched door knobs,
shook hands, touched light switches, cooked, and conducted money exchanges with
other people. Now, critical thinkers everywhere might say that since you used
toilet paper (we presume) that you do not have the capacity to spread infection.
Au contraire! Toilet paper is not named as being an effective barrier against
infectious agents by the CDC (check it out: www.cdc.gov). Even assuming that you
used liberal amounts of paper- you still may have transmitted droplets or
smeared a tiny, microscopic sample on the side of your hand. And even if you
were going # 1, and it should never take you 15 minutes to go number one-if it
does, it means you probably have a prostrate problem and should seek medical
treatment immediately before someone like me is forced to “cath” you- that is
ramming a hollow rubber tube up your pee hole in the Emergency room- you still
touched your wee-wee, and that too has germs my friends, although slightly less
harmful than door #2-UNLESS your wee-wee has been playing in someone else’s dark
orifice in which case it is equally lethal, but that is a topic for another
column. Now, because I am good and kind and benevolent person that cares about
her fellow human beings, I am going to teach you how to wash your hands
correctly. Lets go!
First of all, let’s address the steps we need to take after having a bowel
movement (or a poo)
Step 1: Take a reasonable amount of toilet paper (reasonable according to body
size, larger people, use more, smaller people, use a little less). Wipe from
front to back (think dirty to dirtier) try to perfect this technique so that
eventually, your fingers will have no contact with the edges of your
orifices. Discard paper in the toilet.
Step 2: Reach for another piece of toilet paper- about 2 squares will do.
Step 3: Take toilet paper with your fingers and flush the toilet- your squares
should cover the handle. Discard this piece in the wastebasket if there is one,
if not, drop in the toilet- the person who uses it next will probably flush it
away thinking you were rude and negligent to leave your business in there, but
you did your part.
Step 4: Go to the sink (the white thing with the silver/gray/off
white/black fixtures and turn the faucet to the left (fixtures may function
differently-be creative) When you hear, see and feel water on your hands, this
is good. Try turning on the faucet that says ‘hot’ or has an ‘H’ on it. Good.
Rub them together under the running water and with your dominant hand, reach for
the soap dispenser (forms will vary- again, use your imagination). Vigorously
pump the dispenser until it releases that wet, slippery substance that we call
soap. Now take the soap and rub it in between your hands, the tops of your
hands, in between your fingers and finally on to your wrists. Rinse soap off
under water. Good.
Step 5: Now, take paper towel and dry your hands until there is no more water on
them. Inspect. Repeat as needed. Take another paper towel- a small piece- think
of the toilet paper squares, and reach for the door. Open the door, toss, use
your foot to keep it open, toss your paper into the wastebasket and exit the
bathroom. Note: You may also use the same paper to turn off the light if no one
else is waiting to use the restroom.
Note: If you are only going number one, males may omit step #1.
Now go out and practice practice, practice good little monkeys. This technique
takes time to master, but you can do it.
October 15, 2004 - To Squat, Stand or Sit
"I sit when I pee most of the time...if you
had a penis you would know why. It splatters all over and when you realize what
must be getting all over your shoes and floor...it is a big motivator to go
ahead and sit instead of having to be macho and stand up"
I am glad that this came up in social distortion because it was something I
forgot to address when I was ministering to the misguided about How to Wash Your
Hands. Contrary to popular belief, this is not just a male issue. Unfortunately,
my research has uncovered evidence that quite a few of our
sisters out there are participating in the practice of spraying, splattering,
and dribbling, and no, I’m not talking about the bitches (as in the canine
variety) here. Traditionally, females have been squatters, our anatomy won’t
accommodate anything else, but in this day and age of paper barriers that can be
placed over the toilet seat, the need for squatting has been eliminated, one can
sit down for a minute on a clean surface and contemplate life without trying to
force the urine out in large spurts before her thighs quiver uncontrollably and
give out. But alas, I have found countless offenders (whom I suspect are the
very same women that have been slinking out of yoga and pilates classes
everywhere-hence the lack of quivering thighs and exhaustion that the rest of us
experience while assuming a squat for 30 seconds) leaving a wet, sloppy surface
for the next unsuspecting fool that comes in to a dim-lit public restroom, plops
down the paper barrier, and upon arising, finds that she has acquired a second
skin on her buttocks and thighs. This is wrong. Now, if we are in a co-ed
bathroom, the natural suspect is the male. Only about 50% (and that is being
generous) of boys and men lift the toilet seat when they micturate in a public
restroom. If they choose to use the toilet at all- and many prefer the drainhole
on the floor, actually aiming into the bowl itself proves too challenging for
the eye-hand coordination that is needed to be an accurate marksman.
The natural solution to this problem is simple. Sit down. Before you do, inspect
the seat for wetness, (if it is wet, take some toilet paper and wipe it off-
urine is sterile, and you will wash your hands when you are done-right?), pull
out the disposable paper, place it around the seat (it is already cut out for
you- no need to bring scissors). If there isn’t any paper barrier, then get
creative and use toilet paper, make a wreath (what would Martha do?) you can
even personalize it if you want to, everyone uses a different technique. When
you are finished, simply “sweep” the paper into the toilet with your foot
(unless you had to wipe before use- then don’t bother, use your hands, just make
sure to wash after), use the same foot to depress the handle, and voila! The
toilet is ready for the next thoughtful person to use.
Next week we will be discussing the Kegel technique. Stay tuned.
October 23, 2004 - Q & A
Dear Chicken Queen,
I have a query for you. I am confused
about one of your toilet rules. I often, when in pajamas, underwear, or
drawstring pants, find myself able to pee without actually making contact with
any of the substances/bits and pieces that you refer to as 'dirty', 'filthy' or
'disease ridden'. What of that? Ought I to wash my hands then? I am following
your instructions to the letter in all other regards, it just seems silly to
wash my hands if I haven't touched myself or the toilet, and I flush with my
foot.
What say you?
Chicken Queen says: It doesn't matter. Wash your hands no matter what. In fact you wash them even when you aren't using the bathroom. Wash them until they are raw and have dry scaly patches on them. Then you will be clean.
October 23, 2004 - To the Filthy Masses:
You should be washing your nasty hands throughout the day, not just after you use the restroom. Wash before and after eating. After you sneeze, pick your nose, pick your zits, touch your face, suck your thumb, after touching the rails on public transportation, after fondling newspapers or other shared items. Look people, this is easy, just wash your fucking hands frequently. There isn't enough flu vaccine to go around this year and washing your hands can prevent the spread of cold viruses, bacteria, fungi, yeast and whatever other kinds of filth you are trying to share with the rest of us. We don't want it. We are busy hosting our own icky organisms, so do everyone a favor and soap up. Don't forget to rinse either.
Oh, and if you do fall prey to some funk,
here is a sure fire way to get rid
of it fast:
1) keep your sinuses clean and snot free by inhaling a saline rinse. A straw and
some warm water with a teaspoon of salt will do nicely. Stick the straw or a
dropper in the water and snort that mother into your nasal passages. It will
sting and make your eyes water. Don't be a baby. Spit out whatever comes through
your mouth. I said, SPIT, not swallow.
2) Take Tylenol or Advil, not benadryl for your symptoms. Benadryl and its
sisters, generic/name brand decongestants will dry you up for a time, but then
the snot will come back tenfold and you will be sorry because your nose will be
raw from blowing. Take the Tylenol or Advil and stop sniveling. If you follow
#1, you wont have such a bad drip.
3) Sleep is your friend and so are liquids. Tea and water (room temperature, not
ice) in mass quantities. You should be drinking enough to make you get up and
pee at least 3x during the night. It will interfere with your sleep, but you
will be hydrated and this will make your secretions nice and thin. We like thin
secretions, much easier to expel.
And don't forget! Cover your gape if you cough (and of course, wash your hands after- or at least use a Kleenex). No one likes to be misted with germ cologne- it never fails to amaze me how many people out there are so ill bred. Remember, tuberculosis is spread by the filthy varmints who cough and spit openly in public, so do your part and close it up.
October 29, 2004 - King of the World!
Dear King of the World,
I enjoyed meeting you over the summer, you made those six weeks on Unit 7 very
interesting, you could even say, entertaining, although that is a not a
therapeutic term. Lets say you contributed immensely to my educational
experience. Today when I saw you trying to score on Natoma, down in South of
Market, I was a bit disappointed, but not really surprised. You looked happy to
see me, and just like old times, you asked me for a nicorette and an Ativan [“ativan
stands for akisthesia”, remember?] with that big grey, spaced teethed grin of
yours. I was disappointed that you lost your paper crown though, the one you
made out of paper, stapled together, and decorated with crayons, confetti, and
used toilet paper, so I wonder if maybe you aren’t feeling so regal outside the
mileu. You didn’t have the earring that you made in arts and crafts therapy
either, the one that said “king of G7” on it. I learned a lot from you in such a
short time. I never knew that a potted plant could speak a secret Chinese
dialect (that only you can translate), or that Black revolutionaries control all
the taqueria’s in the Mission and periodically poison the windex. Did you ever
get the messages that the CIA/G7 was trying to send you from South Africa, and
did Mom ever bring the diet coke and 12 oz Butterfinger bar you called her
everyday at 9 am to ask for? She may not have, since the black phone on the
nurse’s desk wasn’t plugged in, but the absent dial tone didn’t deter you and I
never told you it was a special phone reserved for the patients who didn’t come
out of their rooms 20 times a night asking for ativan/benadryl/nicorette
sandwiches. I don’t know who you heard on the other line when you used that
phone, but it sure wasn’t mother. I was glad to see that your fashion sense
hasn’t diminished. You are still rocking those camo fatigues, the tight pink
tank that says Superstar in a star and the converse with the tops cut off of
them. You look great. I am concerned about how that rock you just bought might
interact with your Haldol though, especially because you seem to having a
ferocious tic attack in your left eye and your hands are shaking uncontrollably.
Maybe it would be a good idea to stop smoking crack for awhile and stop picking
up cigarette butts off the ground to smoke. Nicotine is a stimulant too, you
know, and you seem to be stimulated enough with all that internal preoccupation
you’ve got going on upstairs. I hope that the next time I see you, you will be
wearing the crown again and will have moved back uptown. The merchants on 24th
miss your royal presence, there is no one trolling in the doorway, engaging in
shouting matches with the Nation of Majarati, and no one to transmit telepathic
messages from the CIA to the burrito makers at Pancho Villa. Come back home,
KOTW.
January 4 - Correspondence Upon Returning from Brazil
Hello,
Tonight is NY eve and I could care fucking less. I always hated NY eve, did you know that? HATE IT- never never never have I had a good time on NY Eve. I will in bed no later than 8 pm while the rest of the idiots drink themselves into oblivion and wreck their cars.
It rained the whole time in Brazil- I am
not tan, I am not thin. I ate half the country up until two days before
Christmas. Mother in law decided to serve pork for Xmas, lo and behold, a giant
dead pig showed up in the backyard on the 24th and she proceeded to skin it, cut
it up into interesting shapes and sizes and then made some sausage to boot. Me,
being a freak about germs, waited until the evening when she went to take a
shower then took a whole bottle of bleach and scrubbed everything in sight
including the telephone, the doorknobs, and the TV remote control. I was amazed
by my cleaning prowess this was accomplished in less than 10 minutes, mind you-
she was slightly bewildered by the unfamiliar smell that permeated the entire
perimeter of her property, but i felt better nonetheless. My glee was short
lived because the next morning I woke up and went outside to discover a giant
slab of pig skin slung over the outdoor sink that they use to wash the dishes
in. At this point I lost it, and husband nearly had to physically restrain me. I
guess they never heard of trichomoniasis, the simpletons, but what do you expect
from people who keep throwing away the soap that I strategically placed near the
bathroom sink-HINT HINT!!!!!!! Seriously, they threw out 3 bars of soap- 2 that
I placed there, and 1 that my sister in law put down. Oh, there's more- one day
at lunch, I went to put some nice beans on my plate and what do you know- i open
the pot to find there is pair of chicken feet in there. After that, I stopped
eating and I haven't eaten since. I don't know if I will ever eat again and if I
do, it wont be meat. Last night I made a delightful stir fry with nothing but
greens, in every shade imaginable. It did wonders because this morning at 3 am,
i was awakened by an urgent need to perform deep bodily housekeeping. It was
better than the tea.
Love,
Me
March 4, 2005
Springtime in the Garden
It is almost springtime in California. Trees are beginning to blossom, the hills
are green, birds are singing, the air is fresh. It is time to commit genocide in
the garden. While there is beauty all around us, my garden is full with
burgeoning populations of snails, slugs, crabgrass, clover, and plain old weeds,
and ants have begun to find their way into the house. I didn’t think much about
the act of garden genocide until I went to Home Depot, and there standing in
line ( long line- slooooooowwwwww checker, and 1/3 of the population of China)
began to compare the contents of my cart to that of other shoppers. Other people
had nice plants, fertilizer, little rakes, shovels and hoes. Toliet seats,
paint, siding, pipes, electrical cords. Bathroom mirrors, attractive garbage
receptacles, hooks for towels.
My basket contained: two 5-lb bags of snail poison, two cartons of ant gas chambers plus anta-cide spray, 3 liter bottle of weed killer with a spray nozzle attached, a giant parmesan cheese type canister of CAT AWAY that contained something in it that cats are supposed to hate (my yard is full of cat shit, they have chosen my yard as their giant cat box, and they don’t even bury it, rather they just blatantly shit all over in front of me. They don’t care if someone yells at them and throws things at them, they just look at us like “what? I am shitting on your lawn, leave me alone”, then they perch on the fence and admire their handiwork, the little bastards). Fungus stopper, black mold killer, antibacterial spray, and some gloves. The checker said, enjoy your day. I went home and went to work. The snails ate the bait, curled up and died a slow horrible death, the slugs took a little longer, but eventually succumbed, the weeds turned yellow and shriveled up, but it has since rained and now they are back. The cats clearly dislike the smell of whatever it is in that canister and rewarded my efforts with big piles of cat shit in the FRONT yard, not the back, so we are making progress, the ants crawled into their death chamber, but their replacements are smarter and have avoided them so now I have to resort to spraying them as they come in. I have successfully eliminated the mold.
The Pequi War
Pequi (peh-kee) is a peculiar little fruit that grows in central Brazil. It only
grows during their spring (our fall/winter). It is yellow and you must cut the
skin off and then peel the inside skin off. You eat the inside of the skin- it
is fruity and pleasant and very unique. There is nothing that grows here in the
U.S. that I can compare it to for you. Deep inside this fruit are sharp, prickly
sticks (sharper than Cactus) Later I will tell you about Pablo and the Pequi
episode where he got one stuck in his upper lip.
So, every November, mother -in -law goes to town on the pequi. She buys the pequi at the markets by the sack full (we are talking LARGE garbage type sack fulls) and spends days on end peeling them into piles and stuffing them into recycled containers (usually 1 liter Coca Cola bottles—people in Brazil love to drink soda with everything- which explains why many of the older generation are missing their teeth). Anyway, this is laborious, but the woman must work like an ox because if she doesn’t, she wont be able to complain about how hard she works for her children and how ungrateful they all are, even though half of them live in America, pay for her house, her food, her telephone, TV, fulltime housecleaner, and feed her savings account every month. This is the benefit of having 8 children and then kicking them out of the house to live with abusive relatives when their father dies of a massive heart attack from drinking a gallon of Cachaca (Brazilian Tequila) everyday but I digress.
So when the pequi is peeled and put into the containers, some liquid is added
and then it sits. It is bright yellow and smells good. Mother in law is famous
for her pequi packing and many people want her pequi. She usually has about
25-30 containers per season, and one container is ample to last a
whole household about 6 month since you use pequi as a flavoring with food, you
don’t eat it straight out of the jar as my mother is wanton to do- my mother
being a pequi junkie since I introduced it to her a few years ago, but that’s a
crazy gringa for you. Anyhow, right before Christmas this year,
sister-in-law (married to husband’s oldest brother) came over to mother-in-laws
house on her way to the city. Mother-in-law had set aside a few of the choicest
bottles of the pequi for her children here in America. Sister-in-law, who we
will refer to as fashion-chic-dez (fashion, cheeecky,
dez (#10 in Portuguese) because she loves to say that every time she sees me,
apparently thinking that I will be impressed by her use of Portoenglais, but
also because she is strives to be the most educated, most fashionable, most
chic, and an over all ‘10’ of all the daughter in laws in the family (This woman
will never leave her house in sweats, not that you would wear sweats in Brazil,
but you get my drift) The problem is that she loves to talk about it. Most chic
people with good education try not to talk themselves up, but not her,
unfortunately, it comes across kind of like white trash here with a new
satellite antenna or something. Anyhow, she comes over, sees the pequi and
immediately says : “ Oh Dona MIL, what beautiful pequi, I want those for me”.
MIL says “no, those are for Nego
(nickname of husband) to take home with him, but you can have these (slightly
less beautiful used Coke bottle full of pequi). SIL has a fucking meltdown. The
next day, husbands brother (SIL’s husband) calls over to the house asking why
MIL was so mean to Fashion-chic-dez (FCD) and refused to give her the best-of
batch ( keep in mind, this ain’t the season’s top Chardonnay pick people), and
why she favors everyone else except her blah blah. Did I tell you this woman is
40 years old? IN the meantime, this has sparked a huge ordeal in the city.
Neighbors are being called, sisters in America are being called (yes I did catch
husband making a 20 minute phone call) and the whole house is buzzing, analyzing
what FCD said, what she meant, past episodes of meltdowns, comparing past
episodes with this episode. Oh what shall we do? Ignore her at Christmas? Call
in the troops? Devastation. In the meantime, I am trying to understand all of
this using my rudimentary knowledge of Portuguese and overanalyzing why everyone
is freaking out over this stupid little episode.
When it finally came to me that I was in a little city, in the backassward state of Goias in the middle of Brazil, in my mother in law’s house where there is NOTHING to do, nothing I tell you except peeling pequi, butchering hogs on your kitchen table and talking shit about family members, I was able to let go. I started drinking that day and didn’t stop until I came back home. Christmas rolled around and you all know the story about the pig. FCD rolled in to the hood driving her brand new Volkswagen station wagon stinking drunk, many a scene was made and provided enough fodder for gossip to last an entire year. They are still talking about FCD and the pequi she’ll never have. You know why? Because that pequi is sitting in this ungrateful (although favored) daughter-in-law's cabinet outside in the garage behind my 40 roll pack of Costco toilet paper, jumbo box of tampons, and giant bottle of dish soap. It will still be sitting there next Christmas.
Restaurants and Emergency Rooms
The similarities: You come in, you sit down, someone takes your order and then
you wait. Sometimes you get fast service if it isn’t busy. Sometimes you get a
bitchy waitress or nurse. Sometimes you wait a really long time and wonder what
is taking so long. The people with low back pain, a cold, or a scrape on their
leg wait the longest. I don’t understand why they come to the ER at all and
after they have waited for 8 hours they don’t either. They could have gone to
the urgent care clinic and been home already eating TV dinner and watching
Seinfeld. Instead they are stuck in a packed waiting room full of screaming
babies, and moaning old folks. They look at you like cattle when you open the
door to call in a sicker person than they, some glare at you and demand to know
when their name is going to be called. “ I know that man over there is having a
heart attack, but my back really hurts”. They will be called after the man who
is having seizures has been moved upstairs to a room, after the baby who has
been vomiting for three days is finished being hydrated, after the crack addict
with a fever has peed on the floor and been moved to psych emergency is gone,
after the heart attack is brought in by the ambulance, after the laceration is
sewn up so the person doesn’t bleed to death and after the person with a
ruptured appendix has been moved to surgery. Then they will be called, they will
come in with attitude because they had to wait until all of the people who were
actually sick and needed to be in the ER have gone, then they will whine and
squirm when you poke them with needles and cry that they need pain medicine. No,
no, not Tylenol, not Toradol, I need morphine for my menstrual cramps you see.
Then they wait some more while you go to the attending doctor and ask for an
order. He will roll his eyes and then show you a list. This list shows that this
person has been in 17 times in the past two months with the same complaint. No
more narcotics for you. Here is some Advil, bye bye.
March 14, 2006
Where's my password? I can't read anything
on your site because I don't have one. Are you excluding me so I wont rag on you
for swapping micro-organisms with strangers? I did read about your renewed
interest in our old hobby. We have a pool table at our house- you can play with
me when you come down to visit. I miss playing pool too- I miss parts of living
in Chico although not being broke and going to the laundromat, and not that
creepy plumber man Mike who called me all the time after I dumped him and hung
up on me when I answered. I miss the creek, my porch and painting our nails. I
painted mine badly- I am grateful that I can afford manicures now. I miss
tanning outside until we turned crispy brown and not worrying about skin cancer
or wrinkles. God that was heaven. Collecting camel bucks for art deco lighters
and pool towels. No significant men in our lives to harass or molest us. We got
to watch movies at our houses all the time and eat poorly planned dinners.
Gianni's pool. Good times. Shopping at the mall twice a year with financial aid.
Do you realize that we are still paying off shit that we bought at that ghetto
ass store Gottschalks? I miss being able to wear sundresses in the summer. I
don't miss owning a crappy ass car that was ugly and broke all the time. I dont
miss coloring my own hair, using cheap cosmetics or getting my bike with the
baby seat ripped off in front of my house. That wasn't cool. I don't miss my
first downstairs neighbors either- remember the crack whore with the eight
children who played Tupac at 3 in the morning and tried to fight me because I
wouldn't front the bitch my extension cord so that her stupid ass could hook up
her TV after her power got shut off? Dumb whore.
I don't miss my techno ignorance either, remember when you tried to show me how
to use Word, and how to save my documents but I still accidentally deleted an
entire 8 page history report and had to re-write it? That blew. I miss the Pig
whistle night at Duffy's, or whatever that faux Irish band was
called, or maybe that was the instrument that the Leprechaun played, none
the less, that was fun- I miss the way the Leprechaun used to be, we had fun
back in those days even if you did hate him. That was before he lost all of his
hair and got fat. Sad.
Ah nostalgia.
Love,
Me.