Where’s my satan flag

Well, I survived another spectacular weekend. I endured food, lovely weather, people, outfits, things, and stuff. I was displeased that no one lost a thumb in the amateur fireworks derby down the street. I live for the day I can scoop up an errant knee cap and spirit it home to my freezer. “Why no, I did not see your body part. Oh, that must smart!”

Mr. H emailed me from the next room to remind me that he started a blog. He also requires more orange juice and some soy creamer. So far, he has managed to post a few photos and the equivalent of “hello, world,” but I have faith that I will boot him in the ass until he says something of substance. I am not so sure I will get his orange juice. What am I, the help? I am not helpful.

Little does he realize that blogging is hard, much like being president. I think about Iraq every day. I also think about my hair. It’s hard to write something that makes absolutely no sense at regular intervals. Making sense is for masochists.

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