A birthday, and fried chicken n' biscuits
Happy Birthday raptorgirl
I wish you all the best today!
Unfortunately I can't come to your party this weekend, I'll be moving, but I hope y'all have a great time!
*********In Other News**********
I'm getting Popeye's Fried Chicken for lunch today. That's it. That's all. I don't care how incredibly bad it is. It's necessary.
I have cramps, and it feels like someone has punched me in the stomach, and rather than pulling away and letting me crumble to the floor as a fight is supposed to go, they didn't remove their fist and instead are attempting to drill through my lower abdomen and out my back. Seriously.
I have all this work to do, including MORE packing tonight, and all I want to do is weep gently into an enormous bag of salty, buttery microwave popcorn and down a 2 liter of Cherry Coke.
I am ready to move. I want it done and over with. And I want to eat biscuits. Lots of them. Flaky fluffy salty biscuits. Now. I want the biscuits to be in my mouth, or in my hand on its way to my mouth, right now. Not 4 miles away on Sand Lake Road being purchased and eaten by tourists. They don't appreciate the biscuits. The biscuits are just a side item. I KNOW those biscuits, and I will eat them slowly, appreciatively, and possibly in my car so no one hears the sounds I make as I eat them. They shan't ever be eaten by a human being in the same way as I intend to eat them. Somehow in the history of human cuisine ingestion there has never been a precedent set for how much I want those biscuits or how I shall eat them. Billions of examples of human invention in the case of gustation hold not a candle to me.
/rambling incoherence.
I wish you all the best today!
Unfortunately I can't come to your party this weekend, I'll be moving, but I hope y'all have a great time!
*********In Other News**********
I'm getting Popeye's Fried Chicken for lunch today. That's it. That's all. I don't care how incredibly bad it is. It's necessary.
I have cramps, and it feels like someone has punched me in the stomach, and rather than pulling away and letting me crumble to the floor as a fight is supposed to go, they didn't remove their fist and instead are attempting to drill through my lower abdomen and out my back. Seriously.
I have all this work to do, including MORE packing tonight, and all I want to do is weep gently into an enormous bag of salty, buttery microwave popcorn and down a 2 liter of Cherry Coke.
I am ready to move. I want it done and over with. And I want to eat biscuits. Lots of them. Flaky fluffy salty biscuits. Now. I want the biscuits to be in my mouth, or in my hand on its way to my mouth, right now. Not 4 miles away on Sand Lake Road being purchased and eaten by tourists. They don't appreciate the biscuits. The biscuits are just a side item. I KNOW those biscuits, and I will eat them slowly, appreciatively, and possibly in my car so no one hears the sounds I make as I eat them. They shan't ever be eaten by a human being in the same way as I intend to eat them. Somehow in the history of human cuisine ingestion there has never been a precedent set for how much I want those biscuits or how I shall eat them. Billions of examples of human invention in the case of gustation hold not a candle to me.
/rambling incoherence.