My big sister and I had an IM conversation this morning about our struggles through our Holy Spirit-infused awkward teen years. We were both weirdos in our own ways to begin with, bumping around our hometown like homesick aliens, not identifying with a single person. We were perhaps most obviously ill-suited for the Southern Illinois upbringing when in the presence of our church crowd (to which our parents constantly subjected us so that my grandma would stop calling and raving about hellfire and damnation).
I think that the following is a clear record of the fact that hellfire can be defined as “church camp” or “church road trip.”
Sister: OH yes!
I want my Breathless Mahoney t-shirt
from the Dick Tracy movie that I never saw. this one!!!
wait no
mine was purple
I should make mommy dig it up. me: No way, she sold all our shit in that yard sale
Remember?
We ate at John’s Cafe at like 1am
then she woke us up at 5am to help her drag shit out into the yard
I almost barfed a sausage biscuit brick
Anyway
Sold
Someone is sitting at McDonald’s right now wearing the hell out of it. Sister: hahahah
I know
I saw a girl in dairy queen wearing my Heather and BlahBlah shirt
from the one Christian concert I went to with Church of Christ. me: hahaha
I was so jealous
“a real concert! Man I wanna grow up right now!”
HAHAHA Sister: Hahahhaha
I know, I know
that trip was so uncomfortable!
Man
[J.H.] was there
and that girl Nicole, the preacher’s daughter
brought a “popular” friend from school
with big, blonde scrunchy hair, and she insisted she had to sleep by the bathroom because she had her period
I remember going in there in the morning and there was a big huge blotch of blood on the floor.
And no one would talk to me, and they made me play mini-golf
and be in a skit about homie the clown, and I didn’t even know who/what that was.
All I knew was [A.W] got to hit me in the head with a sock stuffed with more socks, on a stage, in front of hundreds of people.
and I pretty much stopped believing in god that weekend. me: oh my god
this is terrible/wonderful
I’m sorry.
I had an awful time on that trip I had to take to that hotel in Springfield with [N.U] and [S.T.] and [N.U.]’s dad
I brought a fucking coloring book full of unicorns and a bag of markers
and they brought fucking Clinique bags stuffed with makeup
and they whispered about me and put on makeup all night
while i colored unicorns
and in the morning we had to go sing about Jesus and how awesome everything is. Sister: I remember!!!
I think I was there too!
[N.U.] made us all stop on the way home so she could buy a new curling iron at Walmart. me: YES
We had to pick up trash on the side of the road or something?
then go to a sing a long
then go home.
fucking awful.
My children are NOT going to shit like that
that will just make them uncomfortable about themselves for 48 hours.
Stuff like that is why I have a nervous bowel.
I guarantee I was constipated for a week after that
because I didn’t have any makeup Sister: hahaha
I went to camp with those bitches!
I remember, the next day one of them TOLD ME
“Last night we were talking in Heather’s bunk, and I said we should invite you over, and Heather said “But what if she actually COMES?!”
Hey, that’s OK, girls.
I’m over here with my itty bitty book light junior
reading Tituba.
Then they wanted to have a leg-shaving party.
But I wasn’t allowed to shave my legs. me: ugh
At my church camp they tricked me in to “dry shaving”
“Yeah totally it’s where you just shave your legs like without water, we all do it”
So I did it with a plastic Bic someone gave me
and my legs were so sore and broken out all week
every little hair follicle sliced open
so awful, and hot and painful
then next year I met [B.] and everything was awesome
and we found out we were going to start 6th grade together
We are still friends! Sister: wow
Well, something good came out of it. me: I guess so Sister: I just kissed a guy who told me on the last day of camp that he “couldn’t remember” his address.
hahahah
STORY OF MY LIFE. me: HAHAHA Sister: hahahahaha
You can make the body of Christ into small cakes, you know.
me: I totally just found my church camp crush on Facebook
[R.R.]
He looks like a dick
a dick in Abercrombie
The scariest thing about that camp
I mean
besides the fact that they encouraged us to send each other “around the chapel” holding hands
during meals
was that giant box full of water in the front of the chapel where they’d baptise
Looked like a big damn coffin Sister: no, the scariest thing was the chef.
Pizza!
“Hey, Pizza-Man!”
Then one summer we came back..
and he was gone.
BECAUSE HE MURDERED SOMEONE! me: oh my god
OH [R.R.] is a flamer now!
sounds about right
He posted an online review of something called “Powered Lube” Sister: Well, he’s not going to fall for the dry shaving trick.
Not [R.R.]
My stomach has been gurgling out of control all day. I’m at the point where you’d be yelling “What do you WAAAANT?!” at it if it was a small child screaming its head off. I really wouldn’t mind my stomach screaming its head off, but the thing is: it sounds deep and heavy, like a wet fart pressed against a leather jacket under a pile of blankets. And it seems to be activated by my surroundings, i.e., people. So everybody I’ve talked to today thinks I’ve been trying to control wet farts, and failing.
We’re friends, in that way that we’re not, at all.
I found this girl on Facebook I used to be friends with in real life, or “face-to-face book.” I said hi to her (on Facebook), told her how good it was to see her, and asked her how she’s doing. That was like 2 months ago and I still haven’t gotten a reply. Either:
1. I am way too invested in Facebook, and so fail to realize that other people are not, and so fail to realize that other people do not consider the total ignorance of a wall post equal to ignoring someone who’s just said hi to you in front of a room full of people,
0r
2. She has reasons not to talk to me that I don’t know about.
The last time I talked to this girl was like 6 years ago. She called me and asked me if I wanted to go out that night. I was 600 miles away, something she would have known if we had talked recently. So I said I couldn’t that night, we’d have to schedule for another night when I got back into town. I told her I was happy to hear from her and that I really couldn’t wait to see her. I left her a message when I got back to town, but she never called back–and it was one of those things where you kind of knew that the person wouldn’t.
Imagine my surprise when I’m getting my hair cut and the guy doing the cutting is like, “Oh yeah, we had to reschedule your other appointment because I was at a baby shower.” Turns out it was for my friend/notfriend.
Five years into the future and we’re officially both on the opposite side of a fast-moving river. She’s over there with those mystifying girls from high school who are already grandmothers, people I worked with in fast food joints who lost their minds and stole cars and disappeared during the Juggalo weekend, people I worked with in retail joints who lost their minds in a more regular sort of way, and family members who are certain you killed your grandma by thinking gay is A-OK. I just hate it when there’s people I LIKE over there.
Actually, one thing I hate more than that is when uninvited creeps come dragging back across to my side, sliming over in their little turd boats, powered by their disappointment in their lives, failed relationships, and fast-sprouting gray hairs they’re sure weren’t there a minute ago. Maybe I’m the uninvited creep for this girl. If so, she should have followed my usual tack and not accepted my offer of friendship.
Countdown to Pitiful
I could set my watch by ex-boyfriends, I swear.
First they run right out and date someone else because they couldn’t give a shit about you, then they do their best to make you notice that they’re dating someone else and they couldn’t give a shit about you, then they want to know what you think about the fact that they couldn’t give a shit about you. Then their girlfriend tries to get a bunch of her friends to let you know that her boyfriend doesn’t give a shit about you. Then, god dammit, you bitch, why won’t you REACT to how HARD we’re not giving a shit about you while we’re busy being in LOVE OVER HERE?
Then they break up because maybe he not only gives a shit about you, he might have sent you a couple of text messages suggesting otherwise, to which you did not respond, but still, you’re a BITCH for getting them! You homewrecker!
Then they get back together because really, when you think about it, stunted emotional growth and complete denial are things that most men in their 30’s struggle with, so what can you do?! Hahaha! That’s life! LOLOLOLOLOL
Then they break up again, and what the fuck do you know?
Hi Ex Girlfriend,
It’s time for me to suggest in a chirpy, upbeat way that you and I work on our friendship because I’m lonely, gray-haired, I hate my job, I just got dumped because I never appreciate what I have when I have it, and I’m basically a big old goopy emotional wreck of a person right now and I think it would be helpful to me, I mean you, haha! if we start to be friends again four years later, and you listen carefully to my complaints and distract me from all of my woes. Other than that, EVERYTHING IS COOL AND I’M REALLY HAPPY HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA YAY
No? You refuse to do this for me?!
Well then FUCK YOU, bitch! I couldn’t give a shit about you!
I mean, I’ve always said no to this same request. It’s one thing to be friends with an ex, it’s quite another to be friends with an ex who can only seem to put aside his vitriol when he’s not sure he’s going to get his cock sucked sometime soon. But this time around, last weekend, when the most recent request came in at 3:54am on a Saturday morning…I said no in such a way that suggested that a certain person’s testicles might be removed from his groin, baked in a tart, then ridiculed for their post-roasting size if I’m ever approached again.
Why do my ex boyfriends have such awful track records? What does that say about me? I think it means I’m a total idiot. The evidence:
One of them is bankrupt and living with his parents.
One is building up a lovely collection of sobriety tokens. 196 days and counting!
One was nearly bankrupt and should totally be in rehab.
One of them clearly invested in Ed Hardy hats.
One of them buys electronics at Target, or did at least once 2 years ago when I saw him there with his girlfriend, the kind of girl who does her hair and makeup before she goes to Target, which made her match him really well. Which is absolutely 100% right with the world, in my opinion.
One went off the map doing the fucking gaywad young Che Guevara motorcycle tour of the safest places in the world for white men that still kind of look dangerous in pictures. There is very little that is more horrifying than having to read about how spiritual and amazing and life-affirming it is to touch a goddamn near dead elephant they’ve dragged out for the whitey tourists to prod, when that person has touched your vagina and never said a fucking WORD about how great THAT was. Shit.
(And one kind of went off the map when his dad got caught getting blown by an 84-year-old woman in a local nursing home last year, which was first an alleged rape, until they came out to everyone as having been a secret couple for the last 30 years. Which I think is amazing, but the guy’s wife and his son didn’t find it as interesting as they did devastating. So it goes.)
Typographical Errrrs
I mean, I know that there are people who probably think I just did this to be an asshole:
To Whom it May Concern,
I’m writing to let you know that the cover of one of your films includes a serious typographical error. The film is “Chocolate Sundaes presents Live on Sunset Strip” (featuring Katt Williams, Kevin Hart, and Aries Spears). The banner across the bottom of the cover reads “Comedy At It’s Best.” Unfortunately, “it’s” represents the contraction of “it” and “is,” so technically the cover of the film reads “Comedy At It Is Best.”
I noticed this DVD on the shelf at my local Blockbuster, and I thought it wise to point this out since this film could possibly still be in reproduction, and this error could be corrected in the future. If that isn’t possible, at the very least this is notice to the graphic design or copy editing department at Cinevision International: using this word incorrectly appears careless, unintelligent, and uneducated.
Thanks for your time.
COMEDY AT IT IS BEST
I didn’t do it to be a jerk! I just don’t think it’s healthy for anyone to be misusing contractions, especially on the cover of a DVD that people already expect to be stupid. Then they see that and they’re just like, “Oh, yeah, of course they fucked that up. Just check out the look on that guy’s face. It’s saying ‘I ain’t be lissnin in school when we be talkin bout contranizzactions. Bitches! Weed! Gun jokes! HAHAHA!'” And that’s racist.
But don’t worry…John Krashna at Cinevision International has assured me that it’s going to be taken care of:
Thank you for your comment we will forward to the appropriate people.
Best
John Krashna
I mean, pay no attention to the fact that John missed a comma in the above sentence. I’m sure that’s why he’s forwarding a typo notice to another party. He knows he’s not the best to handle these matters.
cancer pants
Let me see if I can get out of the valley and up on the hill again.
What’s new with you? Nothing? Well that’s stupid! I’ve been busy doing some baking:
Rainbow Cupcakes
Steel Magnolias Cupcakes
I made the rainbow cupcake by being awesome and also by mixing food coloring into the batter and pouring it in bit by bit. But mostly by being awesome. It was like biting into a unicorn’s butt meat. Then, a work friend requested what he thought was the impossible in asking for a movie-themed cupcake. He got pumpkin cake with pink icing and Steel Magnolias references on top.
So I baked. And I knitted. And I started writing down every food that I ate. I also started making these really crazy lists with arrows going in every which direction, branching out into sub lists and sub sub lists. And I’m not talking about lists of sandwiches! Hur hur hur!!! I started reading a free subscription of Self Magazine and based on Self’s advice I even whipped up Heidi Klum’s signature salad: which consisted of a whole head of fennel (or ass of fennel, as it’s kind of a root) which has been chopped up “into little choppies” (according to Heidi Klum’s directions). That’s mixed with olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper, and it’s FUCKING GROSS.
The article was about how much Seal loves it when Heidi’s up in the kitchen chopping choppies of fennel, and I thought, I really need to make that salad.
Me: I need to go to the grocery store for some fennel.
My sister: Why?
Me: I want to make Heidi Klum’s Fennel Salad from Self Magazine.
My sister: Shut up
**my sister has gone offline**
At the end of the day, you can’t rely on Seal’s taste in salad. The man is married to a supermodel and has a jacked up face. Something about that says, “Oh well of COURSE he loves hard crunchy roots that taste like puked-up licorice.”
I read in a book once that there are two types of depression: depression caused by inflation, and depression caused by deflation. Well, that makes sense to me. Sometimes you get too high and then everything seems shitty in comparison. And sometimes you just feel like your insides were scraped out and you can barely move. Of course, this book was read over the shoulder of a person on the bus (which I try to NEVER DO and also try to give the shit-eye to other people if I see them doing it to someone). But that’s why it took me a while to realize that this book wasn’t about emotions at all, it was about finance. It still applies though, so yeah.
At the end of July, I went to the doctor for routine checkup stuff. She left me a voicemail three days later about “abnormalities” and diagnostic procedures, and the whole thing was said in that “Gosh darn it, you hurt your little finger, didn’t youuuu!?” way that your grandma says things. (Unless your grandma is my grandma, who yelled SON OF A BITCH when you got stung by a wasp and broke open one of her cigarettes and licked up the tobacco and stuck the tobacco spit wad to your sting because that’s what they did in 1944.) At any rate, I showed signs of stuff that COULD BE other stuff that HAS BEEN KNOWN TO develop into CANCERRRRRRRR AAAAAGGHHH OH MY GOD but don’t panic, stupid. So I had to freak out for a month and a half, waiting, then I had to go in and basically do backflips for some nurses in Baby Phat scrubs and they had to cut out parts of me and put them in jars and mail them and test them and then tell me
“Meh. Not as bad as we thought. But…IT COULD GET WORSE. Come back in six months and we’ll see if it’s grown its own teeth and hair. That’s pretty fucked up, huh!”
Yeah. Huh.
So a smudged bill of health later and you’d think I’d be having fewer panic attacks. Instead I started baking and knitting and writing down every food I ate.
Anyway, it’s a shit excuse, but when you’re pretty sure you’re going to die every single day (and you have a tendency to be a bit dramatic about these things anyway), it’s REALLY hard to imagine that a blog has any point. Special thank-yous to the kind souls who think that it does, and told me as much.
The Pants and I were tired and crankety after work the other night. I wanted a veggie burger like nobody’s business, so we went to the place where they make ’em so fresh you get sunflower seeds in your teeth, but still cover them with grease and cheddar cheese so they might as well be a real hamburger. We also ordered these ridonkulous cheese fries that were smothered with bacon, green onions, bleu cheese, and alfredo sauce. Fucking alfredo sauce. Was on them. On the fries. We agreed it was the type of dish one eats in the dark, by oneself, crying.
So as we unloaded the giant grocery-sized restaurant bag full of food from the back seat, The Pants asked if we were that couple who bought lots of food and ate it and went to sleep. I said we probably were, and then we shared a moment of silence.
I hate it when people (including myself) start dating and suddenly their clothes don’t fit. But what’s crappy about that is that I only ever see The Pants when it’s nearing dinner time and we like to make cheesy things and eat them together. Is that so wrong? Also, is it so wrong that I got Cool Whip on my exercise pants and the Cool Whip stain was my reason for not actually going to the gym? What would the gym people think?! They wash their sweaty hair in the drinking fountains, I can’t walk up in there with Cool Whip on my pants!
Anyway. I kind of like how The Pants is always watching where we’re walking in our relationship, pointing out the dog turds along the way.
Watch this, I said it’s fun.
This was my faaaaavorite Merrie Melodies cartoon growing up, and if it wasn’t yours, too, well I’m here to tell you that you don’t know nothin.
Likes: Jesus, Sarah Palin, the death penalty, and being a Mommy!
With some help from my sister, I found this blog, and it’s been like crack, I can’t seem to stop reading about this woman who adopts these special-needs kids and writes about Jesus and just basically wants everyone in her family to be happy all the time, no matter what. I submit her un-prompted explanation of herself as evidence:
I am a pro-nursing, home birthing, alternatives to medicine believing, public school by choice promoting, non-circumcising, pro-life rejoicing, homeless people feeding, adoptive parent advocating, awesome cookie making, special needs loving, anti-child harnessing, 15-passenger van driving, Laura Ingalls-Wilder reading, death penalty supporting, light shining, family adoring, sex outside of marriage disapproving, Grey’s Anatomy watching, beach enjoying, Cinnamon Popcorn munching, Sarah Palin supporting, nose rubbing, Euthanasia discouraging, chit-chatting, fast driving, blog writing, dog loving, aluminum can collecting, size 10 wearing, non-hair coloring, respite providing, cuticle picking, black coffee drinking, hug giving, anti-homosexuality in school teaching, tree planting, picture taking, household bill paying, mega grocery shopping, frugal spending, child advocating, disciplining, husband loving, put God first believing woman of God.
(Her italics, btw.)
I hate these little comma-heavy lists people write about themselves. Now that I’ve discovered this bottomless basement of daily-updated Blog Mommy web rants, this never ending network of bored, religious housewife banter, I’ve found that this “who I am” list is a key theme. Then they’re all “This is who I am, okay? Okay? So if you don’t like anything in this list I’ll tell you respectfully where to stick your hat!” But the deal is that in REAL LIFE, which is what we do outside of being Blog Mommies, nobody stands around in bookstores and at the movies giving each other three-minute orations on the foods they eat, books they read, politicians they support, shows they watch, blah blah blah. And do you know why? Because nobody gives a shit.
Blog Mommies don’t think so, oh no! They sit around reading each other’s masturbatory comments about themselves and just LOL all the live long day. But I ain’t hatin. If my clitoris was mummified and I lived in the burbs and drove a minivan all over the place, I’d probably want to forge lots of cheap online relationships, too. I’d want all kinds of people who don’t really know me telling me how much they love me.
What’s interesting about this woman, if you care to click that link I debated on adding, is that she seems wholeheartedly defiant of the fact that special needs children, or children in general, may have special emotional needs. She writes sarcastically about how her most troubling child, the one she hems and haws (PUBLICLY. ONLINE.) over having adopted in the first place, may have behavioral trouble as a result of being adopted. Haha, just kidding! I don’t really believe that! That’s silly! She just needs to shape up and accept that this is her life and BE HAPPY and LOVE MOMMY.
Oh, Christ. Really.
Well. She gets lots of praise from the other BMs (Blog Mommies) for following her heart and coming up with new and exciting punishments to show them the waaaalk of Jeeeesus. Her most controversial punishment, in my (and her) opinion, is a very short haircut. She seems to think that this is revolutionary in some way, and both the New York Times in 1912 and the Nazis will tell ya otherwise, Mama BM.
It’s funny, or maybe not as funny as it is sad, but as a child, the people in my family who caused me the most emotional suffering, who lied and cheated and manipulated, were those who considered themselves to be hand in hand with old J.C. himself, walkin’ along whatever foggy beach he happened to be vacationing on that Sunday. That’s why I read this woman’s vapid, idiotic thoughts and think how she’d better hope I’m not ever in the same room with her. My sister said she should be “in a cage, with her hair cut off,” and I can’t help but wish that I could put her there.
I guess, on the other hand, you could argue that Hell really does exist for people like this, that they build it around themselves and live in it every day, I just wish they didn’t have the right to adopt innocent children and throw them into the flames, as well. Christian Family kids really creep my shit out, yo. They’re always nervous about harmless shit like TV shows and certain words and sexuality and music a whole list of who knows what else. They get so hammered down into the round hole of their parents’ faith that they don’t know what to do when it comes to real life situations. They’re told to “aaaaaaaaaask Jesus!” like it’s a goddamn game show, and anyways if you’ve invited him to live in your heart then you should be able to hear him loud and clear! But when your bat-shit crazy parents tell you what’s wrong and what’s right, and you’re a KID who’s supposed to be listening to a ghost in your chest, let me just guess what you’re going to decide is wrong and right.
And God forbid you’re a fag. My Christian-school cousins weren’t allowed to watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles when we were kids, or wear Halloween costumes, or even say “dang it.” Now one of them carries a gun and blows his anti-homosexual, Evangelical right-leaning load all over anyone on the Internet who will fellate him for being “brave enough!” to do it, and the other is so obviously and painfully gay and lonely, yet still struggling to tough it out and walk with the Lord so that his obese mother and hate-mongering father will still let him live under their roof.
If anything could MAKE you straight, wouldn't it start with Donatello?
Poor thing. I bet he’s got a secret pair of low-rise True Religion jeans in the bottom of his hamper. The ones with the glitter on the butt pockets. I bet his little fairy hands shake when he thinks about them, sitting down there under all those conservatively-striped Old Navy boxer shorts.
One ring to rule them all.
Monday was my first day back to work with my new haircut. I walked into a LOST meeting (yeah, they sit around and “discuss” once a week, with notes) and all the ladies oohed and aahed over it. So Junk Butt thought it might be a good time to whip out the engagement ring her man gave her on Valentine’s Day. Then it was like, Haircut Over. Somebody’s getting MARRIED!!!
Of course, the crazy-ass elderly receptionist from across the hall wasted no time going around telling everyone that I got my hair cut just like hers, inspired by her hair. Which is funny because, her hair is A FUCKING WIG. The sleek, shiny type that black women staple or glue onto their heads in the morning after they’ve flattened their real hair down as far as it will go. She’s never done a very good job of the flattening, though, because it always looks like her head is sprouting gray and black pubes around her hairline, then there’s this waterfall of synthetic black oil pouring down, which she pulls and twists and sometimes, I think, puts on backwards. She puts her wig on backwards and still refers to it as her natural hair. But anyway.
Successfully trumped, I went to my desk, but overheard Junk Butt’s story of walking down to the pier, surrounded by chunks of “beautiful, crystal clear ice that looked like diiiiiamonds!” And this is where her man got on one knee and whipped out The Most Beautiful Ring Ever and proposed. Junk Butt brought her junk butt, and the ring, to my desk, where she asked me where my pointy elf ears were. “You know, the ones that go with your SUPER CUTE PIXIE HAIRCUT HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAA!” Then she showed me her ring, which looks to me like a, well, you know, a sparkly ring. I asked her if she’d been surprised (since she always referred to her live-in boyfriend as “my intended”), and she said oh yes, definitely. “I mean, there had been some ring shopping and stuff, but yes, totally a surprise!”
“You mean you picked that out? You went shopping for that ring?”
“Oh, of course, are you kidding? Boys don’t know about rings! HAhahahhahaha!”
“But…you were surprised? When he gave you the ring you picked out for him to give you?”
“Yeah oh my god it was so romantic! Then I started crying and I was just like oh my god…”
I don’t know what else she said because I can’t get around how stupid and maybe brain damaged she is. And I’ve mentioned before that I just don’t think I understand marriage in general. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it, really. Do people do it for fun? Or as a decision to have children? Or for the free waffle iron? I’d like to think that I deserve some kitchen accoutrements for NOT marrying my high school boyfriend. Shit, I deserve a car for that. Where’s my presents which I brazenly picked out at Target with a scanner and then emailed to you??
Anyway. My pregnant Polish co-worker doesn’t seem to have enough to do between eating whole cans of Hormel chili off paper plates at her desk and making Powerpoint presentations in broken English that only serve to further confuse international students. Because lately the bulk of her activity has been standing by my desk and commenting on me, my clothes, the things at/on my desk, and any fucking thing else she can think of. After The Hair Cut, she told me to dye my hair. “Lieeke a blahhck-red, dark, you know?” I said I didn’t think so. And whooo showed up today with a terrible Walgreens bottle dye job? You guessed it! Our favorite little preggers Polish sausage! She frankly and honestly pointed out that she had Midnight Rose’d herself “for the one-upping” since I had received attention for my hair. Then she sat down and asked me if I knew how old her husband was, told me that he’s 63, and then leaned in and confided that he had paid her a significant sum of money to come “from the Internet” to America and be his wife, and bear his “cheeldren.” She quit her job writing for the Polish-version of Tiger Beat to come to America and this is the only “stupiding” job she could find. She wanted to tell me this because, could we be friends? And also because she is required to use the large sum of money he gave her to pay him back for half of their mortgage and half of the bills every month, and she is not allowed to have a credit card, and she’s noticed that I have bought some things online with a credit card, so would I please buy her some things with my credit card? She would be happy to give me cash.
I responded that I had an appointment and really I just went across the hall and hid in the supply closet until I thought it was safe to come out. She’s already sent me an email of the things she wants from J-Crew for when she loses all the baby weight.
Should I just give her fifteen bucks and a bus ticket to Detroit?
Cupcake Heartbreak 