Loser, Interrupted

My current principal gave me the "sorry, you suck, and we don't want you for next year" speech today. Well, not in those exact words, but that was pretty much all I heard while her lips moved and her eyes avoided mine.

My current position was only for the school year, and I knew that going in, but I was hoping that if I busted my ass and threw myself into my work that I would somehow be recognized for that and given a permanent position. Sadly, I am not fucking any of the selectmen, nor am I the daughter of somebody with political influence, which puts me at the bottom of the proverbial totem pole.

Never mind that there are some exceptionally shitty teachers who have those sought-after positions...take, for example, my 3rd grade teacher. She used to scream at us all day long, yank us by our arms and tell us we had "minds like sieves" (I didn't find out what a sieve was until years later, thankfully), but she's still teaching. Somebody like me, who actually wants to do some good, will flounder in the bowels of the school system (i.e. substitute teaching) for years before landing a decent job.

Some of you may remember my elation a few months back at having landed a job. "K is a loser no more" I declared, full of hope and expectation that hard work would eventually pay off. I guess this school year has just been a brief hiatus from Loserville, perhaps a tiny step closer to an ultimate goal, but just a hiatus nonetheless.

I plan to get exceedingly drunk this evening. Exceedingly drunk.

Hey look! I'm luring Canadians with sweaty balls!

My parents would be so proud.

Birk season is finally upon us

Today, I was able to pry my feet out of a horribly uncomfortable pair of sensible teacher shoes and put them instead into a pair of Birkenstocks. I feel like a new woman. It's amazing how a pair of shoes can change your mood entirely.

Please pay no attention to my ghostly, oversized, somewhat misshapen toes. I haven't had a chance to put polish on them yet, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let ugly toes deprive me of participating in the first day of sandal season.

Oh yeah, and ignore the horribly stained carpet as well. We're putting it out of its misery this summer, and installing something darker than won't show the inevitable stains that come with having small children.

Back to the sandals. I have three pairs of Birkenstocks; a black pair (pictured), a beige pair, and a brown pair. The browns were my first, and are still my favorite, even if the cork is peeling apart. I've had them for 5 years, and they're perfectly broken in. These black ones...not so much. I bought them 2 years ago, and was kinda pissed when they arrived in the mail because they're made of Birko Flor, which isn't the smooth leather, but more of a suede-y type of crap. Not nearly as durable, and the ends of the straps have a tendency curl after a while. Grr.

There is really no point to this post. No interesting story attached to my sandals, at least not a specific one, and nothing amusing to say. Well, unless you find ugly feet entertaining.

Frustration is...

...my husband, who right now is not only ignoring my instant messages, but also my phone calls to his cell. I don't give a flying fuck if he's in some big important meeting, I want to know when he's leaving so I can figure out who is picking Youngest Child up from daycare.


...my son, who is refusing to sit on the bowl to take the shit that is inevitably going to end up in his shorts in about an hour, while we are grocery shopping. Mark my words, it's gonna fucking happen.


...my other son, who just got written up for fucking around on the school bus for the 7TH GODDAMNED TIME THIS YEAR. 7 times!!! What the fuck??? I swear I'm going to have him pre-hogtied and ready to be tossed into his seat when the bus comes tomorrow morning.


I can't even have a drink because I have to do the grocery shopping. Life is unfair.

Glide, you fairy...GLIDE!

Watch Video

The skate punks must be really horrified at this guy...


Now, I'm not going to comment as far as a presumption of sexual orientation...but damn, I can't see this routine getting him pussy of any kind.

Dealing

I've never been a drinker. I've always been one to partake a few times a year, and very rarely to the point of utter impairment. My husband, who was a major practicing alcoholic right up until I met him, is not a big drinker these days either. Our friends used to make fun of us because our "liquor cabinet" consisted of half-empty nips and a bottle of wine that we kept on reserve in case we had company. True story.

These days, we have a decent variety of hard alcohol on hand at any given time, and we seem to be going through it at a fairly steady rate. A bottle of rum that used to hang around for a year or two seems to disappear within a couple of months. A big bottle of Kahlua seems to have a shelf life of just a few weeks in the K household. Containers seem more often nearly empty than anywhere near full.

Our consumption seems to still be far below average...I did a bit of research, and it seems that the average person can have a couple of beers or glasses of wine a day and still be considered a non-drunkard. Personally, I know I'm below that, but it worries me that I feel a need to drink at all when I never did before.

It takes a lot of stress to get me to the bottle of vodka; the problem is, "a lot of stress" is any given day of the week. 4 solid hours of listening to three children try to kill each other, coupled with the inevitable potty training accidents (shit explosions are almost always guaranteed to drive me to drink) is my usual segue to Stoli-ville. One drink is all I have, but it's a fairly strong drink; maybe 2 inches of vodka at the bottom of a 16 ounce glass. It makes me feel warm, calm, and a little bit numb all at the same time, almost like instant Prozac.

I breathe, I sit down, feeling some of the stress leave my body, and it's ok. Everything is ok. Another day down, about 15,000 more to go. Great. Bring it on.

I rarely drink enough that I wouldn't be able to drive. I never drink enough to have a hangover. But it still worries me. I never needed it before, why do I need it now? What the fuck, is this just a normal part of being an adult that I was never told about?

Or is this how alcoholics get started?

I'm sure I'm being melodramatic, as I am writing this with a big fruity vodka drink sitting in front of me, but nevertheless it makes me wonder. The funny thing is, when I have a drink in front of me, I have no desire to hit the fridge, effectively replacing one vice with another.

It seems that not everyone has such an obvious vice though. There are plenty of people who are thin and have their shit together, like those mini-van driving moms that you see running around in Keds and size 2 designer jeans. How do those bitches do EVERYTHING...carpooling, soccer coaching, PTA, bake sales, girl scouts...and still be so fucking THIN???

Clearly, they all have bottles of vodka hidden in the linen closet. Maybe they're not so cool after all.

Everyone take cover...THE HUSBAND IS BORED!

The husband gets a multitude of magazines in the mail every month, and it seems that there is always a Mini Cooper insert in at least one of them with a new set of stickers for the menfolk to play with. Sometimes it's a little "paper doll" type game, where you customize your own Mini, but lately they've been putting decals in there that could actually be applied to a car. This month, there was a set of letters that could be spelled out to say whatever you want. I don't know who actually puts this shit on their cars, but the husband has lots of fun sticking them to normal household items.

May I present Exhibit A, my DustBuster, which was defaced by a decal last year:


So anyway, a new set came in the mail, and I came home from work to find this on my computer:















Ah, his favorite putdown (Douchey McDouchebag) and my name right below it on the computer monitor. He just about giggled himself silly.







The next day, I found this on the desk:

His explanation:

"I wanted to use up all the letters, and that's all I could come up with."

Hands off, girls. He is all mine. It's ok if you're jealous, it's a perfectly natural reaction.

The worst thing you've ever seen in person

Today I was poking around an internet forum that I frequent, and someone posted a thread topic: "What's the more horrible thing you've ever seen in person?" Responses were not surprising; the aftermath of a traffic accident (bloody faces, bad injuries, etc.), brains splattered on the street...but this one guy mentioned an incident where he saw a possum buy it on the interstate.

"Pussy," I thought as I scrolled my way down. Is that all he's got? An oversized rodent who was too fucking fat and stupid to get across the road faster? But then I remembered my own little brush with a rodent whose bushy little tail was ultimately bested by a brand new SUV.

I was 7 months pregnant with my oldest son, and on my way over to my now-husband's house, when I saw a squirrel at the side of the road. He was on all fours, kinda like those dudes in the olympics with their heels against those blocks, waiting for his chance to make an ill-fated run for the forest.


"Go for it, little fella," I said under my breath. Normally, I wouldn't have given a shit, but I was pregnant, hormonal, and filled with a newfound respect for all living things. I couldn't even bring myself to squash spiders anymore...I would trap them and put them outside, as I hummed the theme to "Born Free". I'd even tear up a little as I watched them scurry into a bush. Yeah, it was a problem. On this day, SuperPreggo, Champion of All Critters, was about to get a nice little reality slap in the middle of a busy street.

The squirrel saw his chance, and went for it. He damn near made it, but a car clipped his backside and sent him spinning. He sat on the painted lines smack in the middle of the road, stunned. I let out a screech, slammed on the brakes, and pulled over, intent on leading the poor helpless creature to safety.

In retrospect, I don't know what the fuck I was thinking. There I was, heavily pregnant, barely able to move at all, and I intended to pick up a possibly-rabid wild animal and carry it across a state highway. Undeterred by common sense, I stood at the side of the road, waiting for my chance. Unfortunately, the squirrel seemed to come to and started to run again, only to be completely creamed by a Ford Explorer, who never even hit the brakes.

My jaw dropped. Maybe he's still ok... Then I noticed his intestines hanging out of his ass.

I was about to go back to my car, defeated...but I couldn't just LEAVE him there. The indignity of another car running over my little friend was just too much to bear. I went to my trunk, grabbed some rags, and again stood at the side of the road, waiting for my chance. At the first lull in traffic, I waddled on out, scooped up the poor critter and took him behind a bush on the side of the road.

I lovingly wrapped him up (I even tried to stuff his insides back in a little bit) and dug a small hole. I said a few words ["Dear Lord, I ask you to take care of my little friend...uh...'Squirrelly'. All Squirrelly wanted was to be back in the forest to be with his family...oh my God, what if he had a family? What if he has LITTLE BABY SQUIRRELS in a nest somewhere that are now going to DIE because Daddy never came back with the nuts? OH MY GOD!!! WAAAAAAHHHH!!! *sob*sob*choke*snort* PLEASE GOD send him to heaven or something. Fucking humans and their SUV's...WAAAAAHHHHH...."], and buried him under the bush.

I cried all the way to the husband's house, and walked in the door still wracked with sobs.

H: "K, what the fuck happened?"
K: [sniff, snort] "Oh God, it was AWFUL."
H: "What the FUCK? Did someone DIE???"
K: "Yes...oh God, it happened right in front of me...the poor thing..." [sob]
H: "Are you kidding? Car accident or something?"
K: "Poor little buggar never had a chance...I picked him up and buried him..."
H: "WHAT?"
K: "Poor Squirrelly..." [sob]
H: "It was a squirrel?"
K: "YES!!! It was HORRIBLE!!!" [wailing sobs]


The husband must have thought I was out of my damned mind, but he comforted me just the same and assured me that the squirrel probably never knew what hit him and most certainly went to Squirrel Heaven.


Ok. So maybe the guy with the possum isn't such a pussy after all.

What I have to look forward to in life

Teacher Depantsed

Watch Video

Thankfully, I don't think I have any waistbands loose enough to allow this to happen to me, perhaps one of the few upsides to being chubby.

I don't get this though...don't most men wear belts? Those pants came down way too easy...

The sad part is that I think I'd be less upset about being pantsed as I was about having all my Sharpies stolen.

Snippets

I had my kids do a little internet research project on animals. They were to find their favorite, and use supporting details from a website in their answer. "S" decided that the earthworm is her favorite critter, because "they poo out their mouths".


"A" was bored after finishing a test, and started drawing on her desk. The other teacher in the room gave her a behavior sheet to fill out, where she was to list what she had done wrong and how she would handle such a situation in the future. She listed her offense as "writing on my desk because I was bored out of my mind and the teacher wouldn't let me draw on paper" and her future action plan as "letting my boredom bore a hole in my soul, thus allowing myself to die of boredom." She is 9 years old. I thought it was a riot; the other teacher wasn't all that amused, and made her write it over again.


I noticed that I was missing all of my Sharpies from my pencil cup. I found them in the desk of "J" and took them back while he was in art class. When he got back, he started running around the room, frantically searching for them. I casually asked what he was looking for, with a thinly veiled smirk...he looked at me sheepishly, said "nothing" as he went back to his desk. Steal my shit, will you...little fuckers.

Time to F the donuts...

Today's post was brought to you by "C", a loyal blog follower who emailed me several weeks ago with this tidbit:


Hi K,

The hubby brings home a box of donuts this morning and I open them up to find this inside!

I immediately thought of your blog (love it, by the way) when I saw these pornographic babies. You may post them if you think they're worthy! Have a good weekend.

Hugs,
C


Hmmm...it's just a cruller and a donut, but they're just about the dirtiest looking cruller and donut I've ever seen. Just look at the glaze, and the folds. Eeeewwwww!!! The weirdest thing is that the cruller looks more like a vagina than the donut does.

Oh, C, you dirty minded girl! Putting those donuts together, for shame! [snicker]

One of those men's magazines [Stuff, Maxim, FHM, hell I can't remember, I get them all] has a section called "Accidental Porno" with pictures of stuff like this. C, you should definitely send these along! "Come on, sweet donuts...I'll make you famous. Just let me cover you with a little more glaze and I can take the pics..."



See? Isn't this better than some boring story about chicks making out?

Missed Opportunities

Well, you guys are REALLY gonna flog me now...



Apparently, I missed quite the night out on St Paddy's Day. QUITE the night out. I haven't gotten all details yet, but the evening culminated with two of my friends [yes, they're both chicks] making out in the back of a police cruiser [my other friend dates a cop, who was giving them a ride to the next bar]. Much booze was involved, and I'm told there was tongue.



Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit.



I told myself, "Just go...it'll be a good story, you haven't had anything interesting to write about in weeks, JUST GO, stupid..." but I was so fucking tired I couldn't bring myself to do it. I also discovered that Friday was the beginning of an HBO free preview week, so I overdosed on episodes of "Autopsy" with my nifty on-demand cable and stuffed my face with pizza. In retrospect, not a great choice.



So I guess you guys are stuck with stories of kidney stones and toddler poop for a while.

I'm a loser, baby...

I could have gone out for St. Patrick's day. The husband wasn't planning on going out, the girlfriends were raring to go, and I had nothing else going...but I chose not to go. I am officially old.


I await the public flogging from my readership for turning down a golden opportunity for a drinking story. I have certainly failed you. The shame I feel is truly a weight around my neck, but flog me if you must.


I also await an ass-whipping from the fashion police for wearing this shirt to school today:


In my defense, there is enormous peer pressure to wear green on St. Patrick's Day in an elementary school. There was not a single teacher who forgot to wear her green, and if I hadn't, I would have been questioned by every staff member that I happened to cross paths with. I also would have been ridiculed by hundreds of small children in succession.

I had planned to wear a green sweater [a more muted color of green...my selection of green clothing is extremely limited], but found out Thursday that I had a job interview for some open positions in the school district for next year, so I headed out at the last minute last night to find something interview-appropriate. This was all I could find on the fly.

It is a sleeveless, solid green shell with a filmy overshirt that has three quarter sleeves and embroidery. It could have been worse, I suppose...it SCREAMED teacher, and was quite a hit with the over-40 set that I work with. The funny part was when I mentioned that I was thinking of going out tonight, and Mrs. D decided to chime in.

Mrs. D: "Well, you're all dressed up already!"
K: "I can't wear this to go out."
Mrs. D: [confused] "Why not?"
K: "I'd be going out with my single girlfriends."
Mrs. D: [still confused]
K: "I'd have to wear something with a bit more cleavage to keep up with them."
Mrs. D: [mouth hangs open]
K: [backpedals] "Well...not a LOT of cleavage."
Mrs. D: "Isn't it a bit cold out for that?"
K: "It's never too cold for cleavage when you're hunting for a man."
Mrs. D: [mouth hangs open again]
K: [SHIT!] "Oh, well I'M clearly not hunting. But you know how it is..."


I wish I could go a day without my mouth getting me into trouble.

I'm taking bids, bitches!

Half price...get it while it's hot! $5k is CLEARLY a bargain, just ask Technorati.

My blog is worth $10,726.26.
How much is your blog worth?

Are you kidding me?

I told my son, who is still potty training, to go pee a little while ago. He sometimes forgets and has accidents, so the reminders seem to help. I heard him go and wash his hands, so I didn't go in to check on him.

A few minutes ago, he came running out, bare-ass naked. I assumed this to mean that he'd peed a little on his underwear and had put them in the laundry, so I got him a new pair and didn't think much of it. That was, until, I caught a whiff of something awful wafting from the bathroom.

I walked in to find his first pair of underwear wet, as suspected, but with a distinct racing stripe. I found a second pair of underwear next to it, only this pair was full of shit. Not just a lump of shit easily shaken into the toilet, oh no...I'm talking pancake shit, the kind that started out as somewhat of a lump but was squished into submission like a ball of Play Doh.

Apparently, he knows enough to change his underwear when it's wet, and he knows to shit in the bathroom, but he can't seem to figure out that he should be sitting on the bowl when it happens.

I think I'm going to kill him if he doesn't start shitting properly. Is it progress that he finds fresh underwear to soil? I mean, throw me a bone, somebody please tell me this is progress or I'm going to lose it very, very soon.

The Wrath of Coke Zero

I woke yesterday morning to moderate discomfort in my lower abdomen. I assumed it to be acid indigestion or something, so I popped a Zantac and went off to school. This isn't a permanent job that I have right now, it's just for the year, so it's almost like an audition for the real deal [for which the hiring process starts next week]. I only call in or take a day off if I absolutely have to. I prefer to save my sick days for the kids, so I dragged my ass in on Tums and a prayer.

The discomfort turned into full out pain by 10am, at which point my class was called for an assembly to see the 1st grade concert. "Good," I thought, "I can sit on my ass, relax, and collect myself for an hour or so. Maybe it'll go away." Just at that moment, a small child dragged a gong out onto the stage. A GONG? Are you shitting me??? When I was 6, all we did in music class was sing about bluebirds and the farmer in the dell [what the fuck is a dell anyway?]. We certainly did NOT have anything like this. So much for being serenaded by the soft voices of innocent children as I sat on a kiddie-sized cafeteria stool writhing in pain. Gong Show it is. Motherfucker.

The music teacher got on the mic and started reading a book called Thundercake, which is about a grandmother helping her granddaughter get over her fear of thunderstorms. It's a lovely piece of literature until you start adding the sound effects. 2 kids were holding a thin piece of sheet metal to re-enact the sound of thunder, with gong kid banging away and a bunch fiendishly grinning children banging various types of large sticks together. The whole story took about 15 minutes, with every bang of the gong seeming to go straight to my gut. This was it. The 7th circle of hell. I'd finally arrived.

I started shaking and getting all clammy. My head started to hurt, which was exacerbated by the flickering of the cafeteria lights that was meant to simulate lightning. This made the preschoolers cry hysterically, much to the delight of the first graders. Some parents brought younger siblings to watch the show, and they started bawling too. So at that point, I had crying kids in front of me, crying babies in back of me, gongs going off to the side and a cafeteria full of sadistic little bastards laughing at the plight of the small children. All of this going on as I clutched my stomach and tried not to pass out.

I started tilting a little to the side, at which point I must have caught the attention of a few of the other teachers, who asked if I was ok. Were they KIDDING? Would they ask a victim of Chinese water torture if THEY were ok??? NO, I'M NOT FUCKING OK! If they really wanted to help, they would have smothered gong kid and told the pansy-ass preschoolers to shut the fuck up before they got their asses beat. My murderous urges dissipated, however, as the show mercifully ended shortly thereafter. I sprinted out of the cafeteria and went straight to the teacher's lounge to call my doctor for an appointment.

My doctor wasn't much help...she pressed and prodded and found that basically EVERYTHING hurt from the belly button down. She insisted on doing a pelvic exam, which I now see was necessary, but at the time I was NOT thrilled at having ANYTHING in that area, never mind a fucking speculum and a pair of cold hands. She was able to rule out "female problems", and sent me for a cat scan.

Upon my arrival at the hospital, I was order to drink 32 ounces of the most vile substance I have ever ingested. It was red, and tasted like watered down cough syrup mixed with soap. 2 1/2 hour later, I was finally given my scan. The tech told me what she thought the issue was, and told me to go to the waiting room "for a few minutes" until the doctor could confirm it.

A few minutes turned into an hour. Bear in mind, I hadn't taken anything for the pain at this point, which was at the point of excruciating, nor had I eaten in 12 hours. All I wanted to do was go home, swallow whatever narcotics I could find in the medicine cabinet, and go to sleep, but these bastards could not get their shit together. Turns out the doctor on call was not answering the page, so I was apparently being kept there until he was done railing his secretary.

The nurse at the desk [bless her heart] kept calling the x-ray department, trying to get someone to tell me I could go home. She put me on the phone with the head x-ray tech twice. The first conversation was nice and normal, with me slightly frustrated and him assuring me that it would only be 10 more minutes. Half an hour later, I got on the phone again, and I was ripping.

K: "It has been far longer than 10 minutes."
Tech: "I'm so sorry, we're still waiting for the doctor to call back."
K: "Can't someone just CALL me with the results?"
Tech: "It's hospital policy. A doctor has to sign off."
K: "I'm in a shitload of pain. I haven't had anything for it at all."
Tech: "I know, I'm sorry about that."
K: "I'm leaving. Tell your doctor to call me."
Tech: "Ma'am, you can't leave."
K: [starting to get pissed] "Oh really?"
Tech: "Yes. It's policy."
K: "Goddamn, I'll come back if I'm fatal or something, I promise."
Tech: "It won't be much longer. It's policy."
K: "Screw your policy. I'm going home."
Tech: "Ma'am..."
K: "Look. I'm done. Tell your doctor that K said to go F himself. I'm out." [click]

The nurse laughed her ass off. I thanked her for her efforts and ran out of there before the phantom men in white coats caught up with me. I was seriously looking around corners, half expecting to get tackled.

I talked to my own doctor when I got home, who confirmed the diagnosis:

Congratulations! It's a kidney stone, managed by drinking fluids and knocking back pain meds. Apparently, these little suckers can cause excruciating pain and even require surgery if they are found to be blocking a ureter. For now, it seems I don't have a blockage, which is good, but goddamn does it hurt. I had to take two 750mg Vicodin to take the edge off enough that I could sleep last night. Today, I'm sore, but the sharp pains seem to have subsided.

Kidney stones are apparently a naturally occurring malady, but can be exacerbated by excessive consumption of products that contain artificial colors and sweeteners. As you may remember, I posted a while back about my newfound addiction to Coke Zero, when I joked that my 6 liter a week habit would probably lead to ass cancer. Well, it's not ass cancer, but it sucks pretty hard.

Why is it that everything that tastes good is bad for you? It's like God's sick joke or something.

If you care enough to give the very best...

...then meet the YVA Gold.



"YVA is the essence of fashionable and deeply vibrating pleasure couture. Made from sterling silver and handmade in 18 K gold-plate, it is rechargeable, splash proof and extremely quiet. (this is a special order item, please let us know if there is a date deadline for delivery) Comes included with wooden gift box, universal charger, introduction manual, moleskin carry pouch and a 1-year LELO warranty. "


I know...I'm just as excited as you are, and whipping out my American Express Black as we speak...but before we start burning up the plastic, let's go over the details, shall we?

Key features:

Rechargeable

Hell YES! I just hate wasting Alkaline D batteries every 3 months or so. Cost effective AND environmentally friendly? Shit, it will pay for itself! [in about 300 years]

Up to 7 hours of continuous use (after 1-2 charging)

I want to meet the woman who could handle 7 hours of direct clitoral stimulation. Really, I do.

Holds charge for up to 90 days

Are you kidding? If I paid $1500 for a sex toy, I'd be all up on that shit daily...maybe even several times a day. In my house, YVA Gold would certainly earn its keep.

Can be "locked" like a mobile phone

Why would you need to lock it? Doesn't everyone keep their toys in a box that is stuffed under the bed anyway? Or is this so if the YVA Gold is kidnapped, that the thief will be unable to enjoy it?

Very quiet

It better be. Shit, it better walk over to the bed, lube itself up and dive under the covers too for $1500 clams.

Splashproof

... but not waterproof. Hmm. This must be to put the squirters' minds at ease.

One year warranty

One fuckin' year? That's IT? I want a shirtless, hard-bodied man oiled up and instantly at my door if the YVA gold fucks up, for the rest of my life, to fix the little bastard.

I can't imagine who buys these. Hell, in some countries, you can buy a man outright for that price.

The Simpson...IRL

Real Simpsons

Watch Video

Nifty little video.


I'm suffering from a bit of blogger's block lately...had a lot going on with work, home, just everything, so I'm sorry I haven't been quite as prolific lately. I have a couple of things I'm working on, and I prefer not to post at all rather than post absolute shit.


Until I can get my thoughts organized, I'll be keeping my posts and updates rather short. As far as I'm concerned, Quality > Quantity.

...and this "What the f..." moment is brought to you by AIM

[00:11] PredEtorIalPunK: man i hate julie shes such a hypacritical bitch
[00:11] PredEtorIalPunK: dont u hate julie?
[00:12] PredEtorIalPunK: must've had the wrong person sry

Wait, come back! I KNOW Julie, she's such a fucking bitch! Hang on, don't log off, I WANT TO TALK SHIT ABOUT THAT SLAM PIG JULIE!!!

[00:12] PredEtorIalPunK: logged off at 00:12 pm.



Oh well, he's gone. Next time. Next time, that whore will feel my wrath.

Brain teaser

The husband sent this to me.

Intelligence Test

Scoring:
1 to 5 is Average
6 - 11 Somewhat Intelligent
12 to 18 Intelligent
19 + Genius

It took me (and the husband, coincidentally) 40 minutes to get to 19. I've left it open on my screen for a few hours, going back to it on occasion, and am currently up to 22.

Don't cheat with Google, people. Feel free to comment with your results. I don't put much stock in intelligence tests, but I found this one to be kind of fun.