W. T. F.
I’m so mad I can’t even talk to you right now.
Ms. Appear (We are no longer on a first name basis.)
I’ve calmed down a little, but you still suck.
What were you thinking? I’ll tell you what you were thinking: You weren’t thinking.
When I am laying on the floor doing crunches, I am off limits. Do not jump on my head and attack my ponytail. My ponytail is not your toy.
I do not appreciate the giant gash you left in my ear the day before BlogHer. If I wanted my ears pierced, I’d go to Claire’s thankyouverymuch.
As punishment, you are no longer allowed to hang out with Mike Tyson…ever again. Don’t even speak his name to me.
In the future, please refrain from scratching me and keep your
paws claws to yourself.
PS: You’re still in trouble.
Favorite Comment From Last Post: “So if I go into a vodka-induced coma, I’m going to have to hope I have more than little boys around. Wow. That MIGHT be the creepiest-sounding thing I’ve ever said.”—Go Jules Go