My dogs and my husband and his friends were operating in a horrifyingly evil conspiracy to not let me fucking sleep last night. The dogs kept hearing the raccoons rooting through our garbage and wanted to go out to play. Ten times they made me go out there until I figured out that they were eating garbage and drinking dirty water out of the lid. How much did I hate them? I seriously considered FEEDING THEM TO THE RACCOONS. Then my husband and his friend called me smashed out of their minds. They were mocking my steam cleaner (fuckers) and J was screaming "BABY I LOOOOOOOOVE YOOOOOOOOU" in the back ground. I hope they had fun because people who interrupt my sleep (I had taken a sleeping pill so I was all stoned and trying to listen to see if something was important) get their balls cut off.
YES CHRIS, YOUR BALLS. OFF. IN A JAR ON MY DESK MAYBE.
Actually, why should I care, since Darla and Buster were putting me through sleep deprivation drive the woman nutso operation #87. I was going to be up anyway, might as well get a drunk dial.
I took the dogs to my mom's house today, let them chase her dogs, let her dogs chase mine. Little bastards are passed OUT right now, and they better stay that way. I am eating celebratory fried rice and watching home improvement television.
And dusting a spot on my mantle for YOUR FUCKING BALLS UNCLE CHRIS THEY WILL BE MINE IN A BIG GLASS DECANTER.
Or something.
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