(no subject)
"Oh, it's what you do to me.
A thousand miles seems pretty far but they've got planes and trains and cars. I'd walk to you if I had no other way. Our friends would all make fun of us and we'll just laugh along because we know that none of them have felt this way. Delilah, I can promise you that by the time we get through the world will never ever be the same and you're to blame.
Hey there Delilah you be good and don't you miss me."
Another night at Findlay. This job definitely has its perks, like my own life. Last night I was by myself because this guy that replaced Caitlin was missing and there was no manager. That's okay, we didn't have any guests. Not one. Love it? Yes. I spent the night reading and rereading "The Yellow Wall-Paper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Although I made comments today alluding to the fact that I may, perhaps, shit all over this dead woman's grave, I did infact enjoy it.
Tonight there is no manager but I do have that guy that replaced Caitlin. He smells. And he has a funny eye. Tonight I continue the oppressed women in the nineteenth century literature extravaganza by writing a one thousand word essay describing the poop I would use over Gilman's grave.
Lauren and I have this niche for watching National Bingo Night (and playing along) every Friday. Does that make us strange?
A thousand miles seems pretty far but they've got planes and trains and cars. I'd walk to you if I had no other way. Our friends would all make fun of us and we'll just laugh along because we know that none of them have felt this way. Delilah, I can promise you that by the time we get through the world will never ever be the same and you're to blame.
Hey there Delilah you be good and don't you miss me."
Another night at Findlay. This job definitely has its perks, like my own life. Last night I was by myself because this guy that replaced Caitlin was missing and there was no manager. That's okay, we didn't have any guests. Not one. Love it? Yes. I spent the night reading and rereading "The Yellow Wall-Paper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Although I made comments today alluding to the fact that I may, perhaps, shit all over this dead woman's grave, I did infact enjoy it.
Tonight there is no manager but I do have that guy that replaced Caitlin. He smells. And he has a funny eye. Tonight I continue the oppressed women in the nineteenth century literature extravaganza by writing a one thousand word essay describing the poop I would use over Gilman's grave.
Lauren and I have this niche for watching National Bingo Night (and playing along) every Friday. Does that make us strange?