You are currently browsing the category archive for the 'The Lawyer' category.
You probably grew up on some normal-sounding street somewhere, didn’t you?
Cherry Lane? Lexington Avenue? Or even the horrifyingly normal MAIN STREET?
If so, I pity you. You, my friend, did not have the distinct pleasure of growing up on a uniquely named street. Others honored and revered my address. My family was the envy of the entire county.
What street did I live on, you ask?
I lived on Rat Nest Road.
Okay, so I made up that whole first part, in case you didn’t catch on by now. But not the name of my street. No, that’s a frightening reality. Rat Nest Road.
WHAT THE FUCK?
Who wants to live on Goddamned Rat Nest Road?
Not this girl. Especially in my formative teenage years.
I envisioned my rejection letter every time I filled out the “address” section of a college application. What respectable university would grand admission to a hillbilly who lived on Rat Nest Road?
In case you ever had any doubts as to what region of the country I inhabit, well . . . now you know. The dirty, dirty South.
What makes it even worse is the fact that my Dad named the street himself.
Yes, you read that correctly. My Dad bestowed that horrible fate upon us of his own accord.
Let me ’splain it for ya. We sold our house and decided to build a new one. As you can imagine, building a house takes a loooooong fucking time. So in the mean time in between time, we lived in sort of a “halfway house,” if you will. And I mean “halfway house” in the way that we were “in between houses,” not that we were “halfway from crippling drug addiction to sobriety.”
It was a three room cabin on my grandparents’ land, a cabin that my grandfather (rest in peace, Papaw) lovingly dubbed his “rat nest.”
My father served on the zoning committee for our area at the time, and I’m sure you can put two and two together on that one.
I’m sure you’re thinking, Awww, how sweet! He named it for his Daddy!
Yes, it was sweet. But you’re not the one who lived on fucking RAT NEST ROAD.
Moving right along . . .
Not only was my address embarrassing, my living arrangements were as well.
Like I said, it was a three room cabin. Not meant for being inhabited by a small family. There was a bedroom, a living room, and a kitchen (and of course a bathroom, but that doesn’t really count as a “room”—and when you have a Dad with such…er… active bowels as mine does, the smell of the bathroom permeates the entire house at least twice a day). My parents slept in the bedroom, and I slept in the living room.
I distinctly remember one night while I was trying to go to sleep (it was a school night!) and my parents were watching TV in the living room/my bedroom. I politely asked if they could watch TV in their bedroom, seeing as how they had a perfectly good TV in there. And my Mom said, I shit you not, “Well, we want to still feel like we have a living room.”
Seriously?? And I don’t want to feel like I have a Goddamned BEDROOM?
Sadly, the rat nest is no more. We moved out my senior year of high school and shortly thereafter my family sold the land to a rich developer who wasted no time in tearing it down. I managed to get into a decent university despite my mortifying address and my parents now live in a beautiful home and don’t have to share a living room with me.
EVERYBODY WINS!!!!!
On an unrelated note, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LAWYERMAN! Even though you’re not reading, I love you to pieces and I want the whole internets to know it!
. . . you interrupt my busy day to ask me to come to your office and help you with a technology-related issue. I work in the marketing department, not the IT department. Call an IT person. I guarantee you they can fix it. LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE. I GOT SHIT TO DO. I swear to you, there is a woman on my floor who asks me how to download a picture from her e-mail EVERY TIME.
. . . you come in my office while I’m eating lunch, stand over me as I’m putting the fork to my mouth, and ask nosily, “WHATCHA EATIN?”
. . . you call my office phone, which does not have caller ID, and start yapping away about some favor you need from me and expect me to know exactly who you are and what you are talking about. INTRODUCE YO SELF, FOOL.
. . . you ask me why I’m not married yet or why I don’t have children. Mind your own beeswax. I don’t ask YOU why you’re a no-neck cockwaffle, so shut the shit up.
. . . you force me to listen to Christmas music before December 20th.
. . . you refuse to have sex with me because you have a sprained ankle. I’m looking at YOU, Lawyerman. Man up and let’s do the sexytime. Just dangle that bitch off the edge of the bed. Problem solved.
. . . you URINATE ON MY FUCKING STOVE. What the hell, Berta? The internet wants to tell me my cat has a urinary tract infection. I just think she’s being a little bitch.
I’m KIDDING, y’all. I totes love my cat. I got her some canned cat food and a heating pad. Chill out. Happy Friday!
Wait a minute . . .
. . . what’s this?
Is it . . . could it . . . be?
A BLOG?
From LRC?
Yeah, don’t ask me what I just did there with that POKE thing. I don’t know, either. I guess I was trying to like conjure up images of poking something unrecognizable (like a blog post from moi). Because THAT’S the smartest thing to do. Why do we do that? Why do we poke stuff when we don’t know what it is? We (and when I say we I mean people. Sorry if you’re not a person) are fucking strange.
Bee Tee Dubs, while I was Google Image-ing pictures of poking (TWSS), I came across this:
Isn’t that horrifying? And the kid is all nonchalant, like, “Yeah, I just shoved a freshly sharpened pencil like, way far in my ear. What’s the big effing deal? Gimme a 40 and let’s superman some hoes.”
Aaaaanyhearingloss, yes. Your eyes are not deceiving you. I am blogging.
Why, you may ask?
Because LAWYERMAN IS AWAY.
And when Lawyerman is away, LRC PLAYS!
And by “play,” I mean blog, be a douche on twitter, reload tumblr every five minutes, and wait for someone to get online and talk to me while I drink Coors Light out of a can while getonmyhorse plays in the background on loop.
Obviously.
With my weekend to myself, I can’t decide if I’d rather
- take advantage of the fact that I don’t have to cook a five course meal all weekend and eat like a bird… like I ate when I was 10 pounds lighter, pre-Lawyerman, and not feel like a fucking cow, OR
- eat as much cheese as possible, just ’cause I fucking CAN. Not that Lawyerman would ever try to prevent me from inhaling a fortnight’s worth of sharp cheddar in two days (I just wanted to say fortnight), but because I equate cheese consumption with rebelliousness. Don’t ever say I didn’t live on the EDGE.
Both options sound lovely, but my guess is that option number two (huh. huh.) will reign supreme because CHEESE NEVER LOSES.
Plus I’ve already eaten like eleven slices of cheese.
So yeah.
I guess option number one is out.
While As Much Nothing As Possible is the only thing I’ll likely cross of my list this weekend, in two weeks I will be skidding into Philly international to visit THIS LADY.
Someone is going to have to invent a new word for epic after all that awesomeness happens.
I made a graphic to commemorate the occasion, but I can’t post it here because of that whole semi-anonymity thing, and it has our beautiful faces on it. But trust me. It’s beautiful. And tie-dyed.
Also, if you haven’t clicked the getonmyhorse link yet, I suggest you do that now.
SHUT UP WOMAN GET ON MY HORSE
So there you have it, I have spoken. To be honest, I mainly blogged because I wanted to post a comment on my future husband Jason Isbell’s blog and in the off chance he were to click forward to my blog, I didn’t want the first post he saw to be a post about my horrible asparagus farts.
Happy TMI Thursday, toots and tootettes!
OBLIGATORY ASIDE ABOUT “TOOT”: Next time a conversation gets too serious, clasp your hands together, furrow your brow slightly, and without blinking say the word “toot” with a straight face. That’s a little bonus LRC-adventure for ya. You’re welcome.
For today’s TMI Thursday I will share some Things About Flatulence with you, in bullet form.
- Now that I have an intern in my office (literally, she’s in my office. Like, sits-across-from-me-at-my-desk-and-I-can’t-read-tumblr-when-she’s-here-because-there-are-too-many-nipples-oh-and-by-the-way-have-you-been-reading-my-tumblr?), I, uh… can’t fart like I want to. I was so ready to just let one rip earlier today until I realized, yeah hi, there’s another person—a person I’m supposed to be setting a positive example for—in my office. Oh, but when she leaves? It’s a regular C&C Fart Factory in here.
- This morning, I was lying in bed with my Lawyerman. I was telling him how crappy I felt and that I just wanted to lie in bed with him all day. “You know what always makes me feel better?” he said. “What, baby?” I asked. “BRRRRONK!!!!!!!!!” Yep, he farted. Of course. I forgot about it for a minute because I didn’t smell anything (also, he farts about every thirteen seconds so it’s not like this was a rare occurrence) and we went back to chatting. I reached down and playfully snapped the elastic on his boxers. Guess what happened? Yep. Residual fart went directly in my face. Awesome.
- I was already aware of the fact that asparagus is supposed to make your pee smell funny, but until recently I had no idea it would give you pungent, unceasing gas as well. The other night, Lawyerman and I had dinner at my house, and it was quite a lovely meal indeed. Within the half hour, however, I was producing Old-Man-Post-Baked-Bean-Dinner-quality farts with alarming frequency. I was even able to fart on command, punctuating my sentences with the beautiful music of my anus (Gloria Estefan was right—the rhythm is, indeed, going to get you. Gloria Estefan joke courtesy Chandler Bing). After one particularly fragrant bunghole emission, Lawyerman even had to leave the room. Yep. Lawyerman, a 6′1″, 240-lb. grown-ass man was outdone by a 5′3″ (nice try, I’m not telling you my weight) leetle woman. I’ve never been more proud of my digestive tract.
You thought you were done hearing about New York, weren’t you? Well, you’re not. Hopefully this will be the last post that involves him.
Before I go any further, let me just say that yes, Lawyerman and I are doing fine. There is nothing to worry about. We are in love (!!!) and still can’t keep our hands off each other. I just had to share this What the Fuck, New York?™ moment.
NY and I have remained quasi-friends since we stopped doing… whatever it was we were doing. Usually that entails chatting when we see each other and sending the sporadic text message (aka 0.1 KB of PURE EVIL–you know how I feel about texting). Recently, I told him that I started reading the Harry Potter series (late to the game, party of 1), which he has already read in its entirety. So he’s been making it a point to text me “spoilers” (“has Ron killed Hagrid yet?”, etc.) just to mess with me (for all you Harry Potter nerds… I know Ron doesn’t kill Hagrid. OR DOES HE?). Somehow, New York turned our conversation about Harry Potter into something… dirty.
What the Fuck, New York?™
When we were “dating,” he NEVER engaged in dirty texts (I should have known at that point we wouldn’t work, because Geez Louise you’ve GOT to have the dirty texts!), so why did he want to start now, when we haven’t been anywhere remotely intimate since well before the summer solstice?
But more importantly, I think, is the fact that he tried to make a conversation about HARRY POTTER into something SEXUAL. I believe “a wanding” was mentioned and he also alluded to “mystical 3somes.”
UHHHHHH…….
Of course I responded to him that I had vomited on the magazine I was reading.
I wish I could properly convey the craziness of this situation, but alas, I cannot. I just don’t even know. What The Fuck seems to be the only reaction I can come up with.
I sure hope he enjoyed stroking his wand alone that night.
*****NEW TOPIC!*****
So I went to a strip club for the first time ever last weekend because my friend had her bachelorette party. At first I was extremely uncomfortable, but then I started to kinda… uh.. enjoy it? Not because I’m sexually attracted to women, but because seeing gyrating nakedness… reawakened my sexuality? I guess?
I was inspired.
I decided that I needed to try to be a little..sexier for my Lawyerman. He’d mentioned before that he wished I had more g-strings in my underwear collection because he thinks they’re sexy. So I went to a trashy lingerie website and proceeded to buy myself a sexy babydoll lingerie set with a g-string..which leaves very little to the imagination. I was straight up giddy, y’all, when I thought about how his eyes would light up when I answered the door wearing that sexy getup with some 5″ heels. Then, before placing my order, a certain naughty word caught my eye…
Crotchless.
HOOOOOOOOOOOLY SHIT. I’ve never owned a pair of crotchless panties! This is excitin’, y’all! So I purchased a pair of those, too. I told Lawyerman I bought him two surprises on the internet and that he’d get the first one soon after the package arrived, and the second one later.
This is where I need your help.
Do I start off with the answering-the-door-in-my-new-lingerie-set-and-high-heels deal? Or do I walk around the house in a skirt (with the crotchless panties underneath!) and throw my leg up over Lawyerman’s shoulder? DECISIONS, DECISIONS.
In times like these I guess I need to ask myself one question:
What would Jesus do?
Or not. I’d rather know what you would do. Or what you’d want your girlfriend to do for you.
And now I feel that I’ve met my skank quota for the day, so I’m stopping there.
Watch out, it’s TMI Thursday!
This one should have you sufficiently grossed-out.
On with it . . .
—
Okay, sorry. That title made it sound like my Lawyerman is a fecalphiliac (why is my spell checker not recognizing this word? It is a legitimate word that people use in everyday conversation, spell checker! What is your fucking deal? Oh, and now that I’ve written this complaint, the spell checker is recognizing it as an actual word. WHO’S THE BITCH NOW, SPELL CHECKER? WHAT.) I can assure you that he is not.
That was a bad pun. I apologize.
Back to the story. That I never got to in the first place.
A couple weekends ago Claire, The Lawyer, and I enjoyed a nice day out on the lake. While Lawyerman was docking the boat, my bestie Claire and I went inside his house to use the facilities. Since we have been friends since we were basically both fetuses, we don’t mind peeing in front of each other. It’s what friends do. That, and braid each other’s pubic hair.
What, you don’t do that? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything . . .
Anyhoodle, while Claire was getting her tink on, I reached into the medicine cabinet for some deodorant because I was feeling a bit rancid after a day of sweating and swimming in dirty river water. As I reached for the stink stick, I accidentally jostled a bottle of Aspirin (I had no idea people still kept aspirin in their houses. WTF, Lawyerman? This is not 1947). This started a chain reaction of events.
As Claire was flushing the toilet, the Aspirin fell out of the cabinet.
Into the sink.
Bounced out of the sink.
Into the now-flushing toilet.
Down the drain.
Oopsie.
Claire, being the awesome human being that she is, reached down into the toilet to feel for the Aspirin bottle (I suppose she’s touched worse. She is an LPN in a nursing home and changing old people diapers is sorta the norm there . . .), then said, “It’s gone.”
I told Lawyerman about our little mishap, and he said it was fine as long as the toilet still flushed. We flushed it a few times to be safe, and everything seemed to be in working order on his porcelain throne.
So, naturally, later that night, I had to take a poop.
I’m sure you can see where this is going.
It wasn’t a BIG poop, mind you. It was kinda like Mooooog’s daughter’s pellet poop (featured in his header). Like this:
Check out that detail!
I mean, there were like, three pellets. TOPS. Not exactly a huge load. Surely not enough to clog a toilet.
Oh yeah.
Three poop pellets was enough to clog the toilet.
It. Sure. Fucking. Was.
Oopsie again.
So my Lawyerman, bless his heart, tried to snake the drain, to no avail.
So he had to remove the toilet, fish out the blockage (read: Aspirin bottle covered in LRC poo), and replace the toilet.
And take a long, hot shower after getting up close and personal with my latest bowel movement.
That’s love right there.
“You know why I like hanging out with your friend Claire more than any of your other friends?” said my Lawyerman as he scrubbed a plastic bowl over the sink.
“Why is that?”
“Because when she wants to hang out with us, it’s because she wants to have fun. It’s not, like, couples therapy.”
As I methodically chopped the potatoes into squares, I responded, “I completely agree.”
Allow me to elaborate . . .
Three of my girlfriends are having marital problems, and every time I hang out with them? I have to listen to them bitch about their husbands.
One of them, Sandra, got married because she already had a child with another man, and she thought the best thing to do would be to marry the first guy who came along after she broke up with the baby’s father. However, Sandra is a very independent person and does not like living with other people. The poor kid, her husband, was doomed from the start. Sandra now regularly requires random nights out with which she complains about being married the entire time. An alternate version of this scenario involves her actually bringing her hubby along and bitching AT him the whole time. Fun for me.
Another girlfriend, let’s call her Katie, is married to Rich, who is pretty much obsessed with her. He grates her nerves constantly, and she misses being single. He is currently living in an apartment, separate from her, as they go through marriage counseling. They still do things together, and a lot of times they want to double date with me and The Lawyer. Katie’s husband, Rich, thinks The Lawyer is the bee’s knees (well, in Rich’s defense, he totally is) but Rich is quite irritating and The Lawyer is not too fond of him. Also, Katie and Rich argue constantly, which is Awkward with a capital Cringe. More often than not I wonder how my spicy tuna roll would look attached to Katie’s forehead after I throw it at her for bitching at Rich for something asinine.
The third friend, Grace, is married to my cousin. For a while, he got really into World of Warcraft, which is supposedly crack for mega-nerds, and she didn’t like feeling neglected by him. So, she went and had herself an affair. Way to solve THAT problem! A few weeks later my cousin called me to tell me he was filing for divorce, but he never did. They claim they’ve sorted their problems out and are happier than ever, but their close friends suggest the situation is quite the opposite.
All three of these couples have been married for less than five years.
Pretty depressing, eh?
As these couples have fallen into troubled times, it seems that they have reached out to anyone and everyone who can create a distraction from the shambles their respective marriages have become. This is probably a grim assessment, admittedly, but The Lawyer and I have grown so tired of hanging out with these miserable people that we’ve begun to dread the “ding” of a text message on our cell phones. These couples have become buzzkills, and we’d rather spend our nights alone playing Scene It? or Mario Kart. Or, you know, fucking.
If The Lawyer and I get smoochy when Sandra is around, she’s ready to jump right in with, “Oh, just wait until you get married! That shit is gonna come to an end quick!”
It takes every fiber of my being not to say, “Just because you’re in an unhappy marriage, don’t take it out on me. I still enjoy peen on the reg, so SHUT THE EFF UP and go join Katie and Grace in the Miserable Marriage section.”
It sucks that I feel this way about people I consider to be good friends of mine, but they’re not exactly selling me on the marriage thing right now. I’ll take a board game, hot sex, and separate housing any day of the week.
The other day, The Lawyer and I were watching Jersey Girl.
(What? Jersey Girl was a GOOD MOVIE. Why did everyone hate on that movie so hard? On that note, why does everyone hate on Ben Affleck so hard? HE CO-WROTE GOOD WILL HUNTING, DAMN IT. AND KEVIN SMITH LIKES HIM, SO YOU SHOULD, TOO.)
Sorry, I’ll stop yelling now.
Anyhooter, we were watching the part where B. Aff’s character, Ollie, and his fatass pregnant wife Gertrude (played by J.Lo) are getting ready for an important something-or-other for Ollie’s job. Ollie is trying to get the two of them out the door in a timely manner and Gertie is just not having that shit. No ma’am. She’s pregnant. She’s enormous. She can’t poop. She has a motherfucking PERSON practicing kickboxing in her uterus. She wants. To. Cry. And do anything but leave the house, but she has to support her husband.
Ollie consoles her, while gently reminding her that they need to go. Like, now. Gertie, through tears, complies and says, “Just one more minute,” and runs to the bathroom to fix her makeup.
It’s at this moment that Ollie does that thing that, apparently, all men do behind their girlfriends’/wives’/hos’/boyfriends’/trannys’ backs: the “boyfriend cringe,” as Lawyerman called it. They do some kind of thing with their clenched fists in the air while looking extraordinarily annoyed. The kind of thing one reserves for times of great disdain. Sadly, I can’t illustrate this because, apparently, Googling “Jersey Girl movie boyfriend cringe gif” does not yield desirable results for this blog post.
Who knew?
But you know what I’m talking about, anyway.
Since The Lawyer mentioned it, I asked.
“Do you do that behind my back often?”
“Define . . . often . . .”
I thought about all the times in which I could have annoyed The Lawyer to the point of gesturing violently and wanting to silently throttle me as I slept.
“Once a week?”
“Well, if once a week is often, then yeah. Pretty often.”
-Record scratch-
“Wait, WHAT?”
I couldn’t imagine that I could ever be that annoying. Surely, I’m not! I thought. He annoys me way, way more than I annoy him! He’s perpetually annoying!!! HOW DARE HE!!!!
“What do I do that’s so annoying?” I implored.
“Well, I can’t really think of anything in particular right now.”
WRONG ANSWER.
Dudes. Don’t tell us we annoy you often and then not be able to back it up with examples. That’s just bad form.
Finally, after much prodding from yours truly, he came up with ONE thing he could think of that annoyed him on the reg.
You know those salt and pepper grinders you buy from the grocery sto’ . . . the ones that have lids on them . . . kinda like this?
The Lawyer and I use these to season our food. When we cook dinner at home, I usually serve myself first because 1) WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST, BITCHES, AND I’M BOTH and 2) I’m always hawngriest because I heart food and NOMNOMNOM and 3) he is extremely slow in putting his food on the damned plate already.
So what annoys Lawyerman about LRC?
It annoys him that I leave the lids off the salt and pepper grinders.
I LEAVE.
THE LIDS OFF.
FOR HIM.
SO HE CAN USE THEM.
ON HIS FOOD.
WITHOUT BEING BOTHERED TO TAKE THE CAP OFF AGAIN.
I can’t think of a more ridiculous thing to be annoyed by.
And now, you ask, what annoys ME about The Lawyer?
He corrects me. On everything. Even when he’s wrong.
Except I do the cringe/arms flailing/IMMA MURDER YO ASS face right in front of him, instead of behind his back.
Because I want him to be prepared for the middle-of-the-night throttling.
So tell me, bloglings (no, really, tell me. I’m curious). What is it that your current or former significant other does/did that makes/made you go ABSOLUTELY INSANE?
What do/did you do to a current/former significant other that causes/caused grave annoyance?
Since The Lawyer is sooooo busy making 167% of my current salary, he asked me to share my Netflix password with him so that he could watch movies online while he was at his office. Since, you know, those appeals just write themselves.
So today I checked my “Instant” queue, now filled with his apparent Must See Movies (and he says I have shitty taste in movies? PUH. I knew he liked vom-worthy movies, but I didn’t know he liked terrible movies exclusively), only to find this:
Well played, Lawyerman. Well played.
*Yes, this was a joke.
** Notice I’ve already rated the 80’s classic gender-bending rom-com Just One of the Guys with 4 stars. There are two reasons for this. 1) It’s the first movie in which I ever saw boobs. 2) “It’s OK everybody, it’s all right. He has tits” remains one of the greatest movie quotes of all time.
In every new relationship, I think every woman should be allowed a small amount of Crazy Girlfriend Behavior.
Now, by “behavior,” I don’t mean Facebook stalking his ex and Fed-Exing her a dead rabbit with the phrase STAY AWAY FROM MY MAN YOU LOOSE, FELLATIOUS WHORE stained in blood into its fur.
Rabbits are small. You can’t fit that whole sentence on a rabbit carcass.
Common sense, people.
I don’t even mean Facebook stalking any of his exes, like, at all. Festering rabbit carcass notwithstanding.
Trust me, girls. Don’t do it. You won’t like what you see.
The type of Crazy Girlfriend Behavior I fully endorse is this:
Writing A Passive-Aggressive Blog Post Shit-Talking His Ex-Girlfriend That May Or May Not Include A Fun Diagram That Took Twenty Minutes To Make In Photoshop!
Duh.
That was so obvious.
(Not only does this method work for current boyfriends’ exes, it ALSO works for ex’s current girlfriends [see last few sentences of this post]. Bonus!)
Here’s the thing.
Lives next door to his ex-girlfriend.
Yeah, you read that right.
The Lawyer could fart on his back porch and his ex could probably smell it ten seconds later.
I’m sure you can imagine just HOW FUN this is for me.
Let’s go in depth, shall we?
The way The Lawyer’s house is set up is like this (click to embiggen):
*Map not to scale and probably completely inaccurate. Oh look, trees!
(Oh yeah, I’m calling her Skinny McSkanky, because she’s 1) skinnier than I [also acceptable Crazy Girlfriend Behavior: being jealous of his ex because she is skinnier than you and giving her a moniker like Skinny McSkanky] and 2) duh, skanky.)
So The Lawyer and his ex-step-uncle live on a lakefront property together with a third house, the one that Skinny McSkanky rents from Lawyerman’s G-Pa. I guess The Lawyer and Skinny McSkanky started dating out of convenience. That, and they are both young, attractive individuals. ANYHOOSITS. Lawyerman told me things with him and S.McS didn’t end well. I didn’t ask for deets because 1) it’s none of my business and 2) if it had anything to do with anything sexual my brain would asplode right there and well, I just don’t want that happening.
Now, I must say this. S.McS has never been anything but nice to me and I am probably a major bitch for writing this post.
BUT.
I am allowed to be somewhat completely irrational because of:
Crazy Girlfriend Behavior.
Enough said.
ANYWAY. As you can see by that lovely map I made, the pool is adjacent to S.McS’s house. Despite this fact, the pool is shared by her, The Lawyer, and the Lawyer’s ex-step-uncle.
SO. Whenever The Lawyer and I want to go swimming, we have to be all up in S.McS’s backyard and shit.
It’s really not as bad as it sounds, but still. It’s not THE most comfortable thing to do.
I should mention here that this pool is not an ordinary chlorinated pool. It is filled and drained on a regular basis with spring water that is FREAKING FREEZING COLD. This makes it good for taking baths in. Which The Lawyer does from time to time, and apparently others use it for this purpose, too.
Because, next to the pool, on the edge of S.McS’s porch . . .
I found this:
And thought to myself:
AHAHAAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHha!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HAAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!
BITCH HAS GOT EMBARRASSING DANDRUFF!!!!!!!!!
And immediately I felt better about myself.
I never mentioned it to The Lawyer.
Because these thoughts are allowed to exist in my head only.
And also apparently, on this blog.
(SHE EVEN GOT THE WAL-MART BRAND. BITCH DIDN’T EVEN SPRING FOR SELSUN BLUE)
