Chicken snatchatori
Fatigue has been smacking me around all day. Pinching my armskin. Playing with the globs of fat on the backs of my biceps. Smacking me with my own hand, whining, "Quit hitting yourself, quit hitting yourself."
I took a 4-hour nap this afternoon, missing two TBS movies and the setting sun. Isn't it remarkable that both of those little luxuries will continue to happen every single day, should the rapture continue to miss us?
That's my new word. Remarkable. It's just so irritatingly neutral.
:::
This week will mark the first Thanksgiving I've spent away from home. My tum is already dotted with pangs of homesickness. I'll miss my father's constant commentary on my eating habits and philosophies on the modern woman and her state of cuntitude. I'll miss my mother's special stuffing, which she makes by tearing up little pieces of bread, and the incredible amount left over because she's the only one who eats it. I'll miss my Courtney, who wrestles me to the floor with the gusto of a grown man until my grandmother screeches for us to stop it, already. I'll miss the strangely comforting, pungent scent of gizzard gravy boiling on the stove. I'll miss picking at the layer of marshmallows on top of the ... what, yams? Sweet potatoes? Who knows.
I took a 4-hour nap this afternoon, missing two TBS movies and the setting sun. Isn't it remarkable that both of those little luxuries will continue to happen every single day, should the rapture continue to miss us?
That's my new word. Remarkable. It's just so irritatingly neutral.
:::
This week will mark the first Thanksgiving I've spent away from home. My tum is already dotted with pangs of homesickness. I'll miss my father's constant commentary on my eating habits and philosophies on the modern woman and her state of cuntitude. I'll miss my mother's special stuffing, which she makes by tearing up little pieces of bread, and the incredible amount left over because she's the only one who eats it. I'll miss my Courtney, who wrestles me to the floor with the gusto of a grown man until my grandmother screeches for us to stop it, already. I'll miss the strangely comforting, pungent scent of gizzard gravy boiling on the stove. I'll miss picking at the layer of marshmallows on top of the ... what, yams? Sweet potatoes? Who knows.
2 Comments:
I'll miss my mother's special stuffing
Aw, I'll miss you too!
Sicko.
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