Over the weekend I slept on my neck flawed – I assume 42 years of apply simply is not sufficient – so to show my head I needed to transfer like Michael Keaton’s Batman, lurching my entire torso round.
Me, stiffly staring 3 ft to the left of the place John is standing: “Might you please transfer 3 ft to the precise.“
After 2 days of this, I went to stretch a short time speaking to John… and threw out my higher again.
I swear this by no means occurs to me.
I used to be alleged to be writing posts on the time, so John loaded me up on scorching packs and smelly tingle lotions* and ache meds, however irrespective of how I attempted to take a seat I ended up wanting like this:
“ow ow ow ow owowoowowowow”
[* “Smelly Tingle Creams” is the title of my Jake Peralta cover band]
[Also that joke has many layers to keep it family-friendly. You’re welcome.]
Ultimately all that stuff kicked in, although, and right here I’m, joyful as a bruised hard-boiled egg being thrown in a puddle:
No wait, joyful as a panicked Ernie from Sesame Avenue… being thrown in a puddle:
No wait, joyful as a crab who’s simply realized life is a unending quagmire of ethical ambiguity and socially dissociative experiences interspersed with bodily pains… however at the very least we nonetheless have brownies.
… in a puddle.
Dang, this smelly tingle cream is nice stuff.
Because of Anony M., Elizabeth A., Megan H., Kristy L., Beth S., & Caroline H. for letting me work out my crabbiness.
And from my different weblog, Epbot:
