soapboxdiner

Don't touch the dead thing

Ruby gave me her cold. Thanks, Ruby, 'preciate that.

In other news, I think something died under the trailer of love, darlings, and the malodorousness wafting up through the heating ducts is only slightly reduced by the above mentioned cold.

Thanks, dead thing, I REALLY appreciate that.

Of course you know this means I will have to crawl under my house, don't you? Nearly imploding head, achy bod and all. Under the house where it is dark and dank and scary yucky dirty dead things live. I must bury the dead thing.

I mourn.

But in happier news, I've heard the most exciting rumor! The neighbors (who've been mentioned several times before) are moving next summer! Could you not just DIE?!? I know! Me neither! Oh, I will not miss the neighbors. I will not miss them tramping through my yard (like last night, when they used my driveway as their house painting staging area and wouldn't move so I could either park or at least turn the station wagon of love around to park elsewhere). I will not miss their parties (like last night, when I was dying of nasal virus overload, and they kicked it up a notch Salsa style until after midnight). I will not miss their children stealing borrowing Steven's toys or leaving their diapers in my flowerbed.

I will not miss them, not one little bit.

.

.

.

Okay. That's enough festive rejoicing for one entry. I think I'll be off to lance my head. Stay out of trouble, kids.

8:26 am - 09.27.03
previous | next

Home | Archives | Profile | Notes | DiaryLand | Random Entry