Georgie is licking the floor. She does that.

I got my hair done. Not quite as dark as last time, but just as fucking sexy.

I am absolutely certain my stylist is preggers so while she was standing next to me with her belly in my face I was silently screaming, “hi, baby!!” through her bulky go-go dancer dress. (Yes, she was wearing the go-go dancer boots too. HAWT.)

I hate being the bearer of news that changes people’s lives forever in a “well, hmm, that’s not great for me, could we undo that?” way. It sucks hard and breaks my heart a little. I had to break some yesterday and I’m lucky I didn’t start bawling.

Speaking of breaks, I love playing GH3 with Break Boy. I hope we’re still playing face-off side-by-side when we’re old and senile. I also love it when he tries to body check me out of the way to mess me up when I’m winning, because as Essdy (my made up name for the other guy there) can attest to, my low center of gravity throws off Break Boy’s big self even when he sees me making my strike. I suck at estimating weight, but I know he’s at least 2.5 times heavier than I am (he’s a giant), and that’s a conservative guesstimate.

I played the open source version of Dance Dance Revolution last night. Let’s just say I look “extra special” when I’m trying to dance.

Break Boy is a vegetarian. Has been since we were in college. He switched for His Lovely Wife who became a vegetarian in high school after cutting off one too many chicken heads on the family farm. Yesterday I got us garlic pizza to eat while we rocked out. My car still smells like garlic. So does my breath, and yet the kitties still keep giving me kisses.

My brain is racing at a million miles a minute. It has too much to think about. I don’t see this changing anytime soon. I love it when my mind races, but you all may not be able to hold on for the ride. Sorry in advance. (Not really. You like all parts of me or you don’t, but I’m English so I apologize anyway and mutter “fucker” under my breath. :winks: )

“Painful” is now a quantitative distance measurement. I’ve filed it with Webster’s and British Parliament. So, the next time someone asks you “how far is it from Canada to Australia?” you can answer “it’s Painful.”

I really should have gone to the grocery store on the way home from getting my hair done but I didn’t feel like it. I’m now on my last soda. Fuck. Soda and weekends go together, dammit. Time to send Ripley to the store with a note from Mama (me) that she’s old enough to buy some. See, I have milk, water, cider, iced coffee, beer, and hard lemonade in the fridge, but that’s just not gonna cut it.

Ripley is making biscuits on my chest. I :pinkpuffyheart: when she does that. Allie is glaring at her because she wishes she were making biscuits on me even though she doesn’t know how.

I called Georgie “O-N-G” when I got home. I just kept saying it over and over. There’s no reason why, I don’t even know what ONG stands for, but this is precisely why each cat has about 15 nicknames. When I can’t remember their names they are “Bunny” and when I can remember who they are they get one of their 15 very own names. When I am feeling extra love they are “Pretty Princess” or “Bunny”. So, … yah. I am inconsistent.

I miss my boy. Ow.

Now I’ve dorked out.

kbai