flaming squirrels are eating my tongue Gads. There’s just too much. Let’s summarize. Okay. I don’t like the “therapist” at the Dad’s facility. She assumes that Dad is deaf, because she speaks at decibels that rival shop-vacs. She also got right into his face with that voice of hers (which also has that great south-eastern Alabama-type of twang that makes you want to set something on fire. Like her vocal chords) so he spit his eggs at her. Silently, I cheered inside. I did something to my ankle while in Florida. Now it just simply hurts and I can’t point my toes or put weight on my foot when in demi-pointe’. So I hied myself to the podiatrist and I didn’t break anything but I did do some soft-tissue damage, so now I’m wearing a rigid plastic splint- thing which actually seems to cause more discomfort. And since the insurance doesn’t cover it, I had to pay cash for this implement of mild torture. I spent well over two hours at the DES last week, trying to straighten out my unemployment benefits. I thought all was taken care of, yet when I tried to access the “file your weekly claim” on the internet, I was informed that my social security number is not in the system. Guess where I get to go tomorrow? I did, however, get some faboo new reading material from the local used book-and-all-other-media-known-to-man-and-beast store. Like the Dexter book series, a new copy of one of my favorite LaVyrle Spencer romances (to replace the one I dropped into the toilet – don’t ask), and the newer Alanis Morrissette CD. Because I need more angst. I culled my knitting book library. Not only do I have more yarn than any one person needs (yeah, right!) but I also had more patterns than I will ever make. And frankly, I just really like plain socks. Or a simple pattern. With a ribbed cuff. Anything more difficult and you’re really just wanking with tiny needles. I had a faboo lunch today after I went to the used book store. Potato cheese soup, a chicken BLT on toasted sourdough, and chocky pudding. Perhaps not the best choices when considering the Weight Watchers, but we’re talking about chocky pudding. Remember when the pudding cup used to be in a little tin, with a pull-ring top? Did you ever cut your tongue trying to lick out the last bit of the pudding? I never did, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Mmm. Pudding. Books about serial killers. Not wanking with tiny needles. Yup, life is generally good.
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