Yesterday I was working at a coffee shop like an asshole does, and I messaged Mr. H to say “Guess what, I’m at a coffee shop without a ybab.” And he freaked out, assuming I had gone into some sort of fugue state and left her chained to the fridge at home while I decided to have a mocha. What a vote of confidence in my maternal skills! Then a friend came in with her daughter and looked similarly alarmed. Sheesh. Don’t you let your kids play in abandoned appliances while you’re at the loser fake office? No no no. Other wife or the chupacabra had her. I think. I don’t know. I pay someone, and I pretend I don’t count the pain pills in the medicine cabinet.
I am not as much of an asshole as the women sitting next to me, though. One of them had a daughter named Linda Pam. I clutched at the air upon eavesdropping this, thinking I had just accidentally fallen a dozen states into Alabama. Linda Pam is the proud recipient of a bag of her mother’s used sandals. Linda Pam’s mother is not really a size 6; I found out when she went to the counter to get something. The others in her coven see right through her assertions.
There is no real point to this post, but I wanted to work in how two birds collided in mid-air and died before they hit the ground my window. It was a thing to see. Ybab wanted to pet the birds. No no no no! No dead birds! What does the live bird say? Cheep? Who are you calling cheap? What does the Tiger say? Meow. Sure it does, Linda Pam. Your face is your fortune.