(no subject)
It seems to be the Universe's inherent wish that I come home smelling of smoke every day. Spent a terrifying ten minutes in Mike's car listening to OutKast and balancing half a dozen eggs in my apron. Mike's idea of a speed limit is sort of like Barbossa.
"It's more like a guideline anyway."
No, Siriusly.
Five days left. Five days of living in the 1840s. Five days of avoiding being anywhere alone with Jay. Five days of petticoats and bonnets. Five days of stabbing myself in the thumb while sewing buttons for Dave. Five days left of counting down the days. Five. Freaking. Days.
"It's more like a guideline anyway."
No, Siriusly.
Five days left. Five days of living in the 1840s. Five days of avoiding being anywhere alone with Jay. Five days of petticoats and bonnets. Five days of stabbing myself in the thumb while sewing buttons for Dave. Five days left of counting down the days. Five. Freaking. Days.