So I didn’t so much fall OFF the scooter as I fell OVER the scooter, since I was, for some reason, trying to shut it off before I put the kickstand down, and it slipped away from me, pulling me with it. I am, as usual, bloody and bruised but unbowed, and wish to once again thank the couple who came to my aid in the Safeway parking lot.
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I am disturbed by the increasing depictions of cereal as sentient and cannibalistic. It makes me distrust my breakfast. I don’t need that shit first thing in the morning. That’s far too early to be taking anti anxiety meds, in my opinion.
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I am about half way through cleaning out the bedroom closet, and the moths have taken umbrage at being disturbed, those fuckers, as if they paid rent or something. Between the cats and the moths, I’m the only one who does anything productive around here. All the cats do is sleep and stare at the wall for hours, and the moths have ruined three pairs of gloves and a sweater. And I really liked that sweater.
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Also, the tampon you use determines whether or not you can get into the hip clubs. Or so that’s what the TV tells me.
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Dear Pier One Imports,
I do not wish to purchase furniture or decorative knickknacks that speak to me. When inanimate objects start speaking to you, it’s less important to think about how to integrate talking objects into the decor, and more important to check your anti psychotics.
Sincerely,
Tracy Kaply
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Me: I used to love the sound of glass breaking.
Kevin: Used to?
Me: *SIGH* Apparently, it’s “wrong” to break glass unless it belongs to you, which kind of limits the fun.
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And SCENE.