So I ran into the backyard and grabbed my army of rabid Muppets, who devoured all three of them at my command. Which is exactly the same thing as listening to Bright Eyes and crying in the dark. -Sarah
Unfortunately for myself, my sister and her husband were either fickle or I am just lacking the grasp on this situation far more than I thought (which is more than likely the case), but under weird circumstances concerning my sister and her husband joining the Air Force, they returned home nearly a week later. My sister demanded she have her bedroom back; I refused, and can't remember her beating me, but I imagine that she did and I'm sure I deserved it. -Jackie
Okay, so call the psychotheraphist (and pay for my sessionm yeah?). Why do I refuse to part with this crap? What is the attachment to rubber fowl, to Christian paraphernalia? Furthermore, why am I so self-involved that I actually devote time to writing about it? There's a deep hidden message here, I promise. Maybe I'm a closet lesbian, manifested in my attachment to that scrap of paper. Maybe I'm a closet Methodist, thus the refusal to part with that horrendous necklace. Or maybe I'm just taking advantage of the fact that Jackie has to print whatever I write, in fear of jeopardizing our friendship by telling me that my writing is aimless! -Jessica