Somewhat Malcontent

and then drive to Taco Bell for breakfast at midnight.

And not in the military or religious cult kinda way. In the employment kinda way. In the words of Borat, “Ni-ice.”

What the fuck is wrong with the two of you? What makes one of you think it’s okay to offer a ridiculous discount on certain school supplies without imposing a quantity limit and the other one think it’s okay to come in and buy *ALL* of those supplies with the excuse that you’re “supplying a whole school for a whole year”?

May you both rot in hell.

Yours,

Molly

P.S. I’ll burn down the building.

That is all.

with her cousin who’s visiting from out of town and I pass the time watching every episode of South Park ever made instead of doing laundry.

We moved out of our old school district at the end of the school year, with the hopes of achieving open enrollment into Fynn’s sibling’s school district. We were summarily denied, as I, being unaware of the first-come first-serve policy, allowed others to go ahead of me whilst I waited on BD to arrive only to be told that he did not need to be there for me to register :P Being uncertain about the new school district, I opted to attempt to keep Fynn in her old school district for one more year, knowing that we will be in a more permanent place by the time she enters middle school next fall. That application, of course, was swiftly approved.

*fast forward two months*

We’ve settled in nicely into the new school district and school is starting 2 weeks from Monday. As we browse through the horrible assortment of school uniform shirts that are available, I began revisiting my decision to keep her in the old school. And one by one, the logic of my brain now has shot down the arguments from the logic of my brain then. I have been over and over everything and decided that the single obstacle that stands between us and the new district can be overcome with a few quick phone calls and conversations.

Some people say I’m flighty, but I think I just get smarter as time goes on.

The Teenager on her trick bike trying to pop a wheelie : “I can’t get it up!”
Me, sipping wine on the back patio : “That’s what he said.”

Don’t ever do anything stoopid like get a bunch of tattoos when you’re 18 that you’ll hate when you’re 35. Especially don’t get a gay tattoo of a flower on your hand-shaking hand. If you must get a tattoo, get something really cool, like a chameleon. Only make sure the ink is magic chameleon ink that blends in with it’s surroundings. That way, when you go on job interviews, no one will notice it because it will be permanently blended in with your skin. And when people don’t believe that you have a magic chameleon ink tattoo, you can prove you’re hard core by punching them in the face.

Knowledge-fooly yours,

Mom

If you’re all out of wine and you’ve an evening of staring blankly at your T.V. wishing for the Cable Fairy to come, why not take yourself over to the park behind my house and watch a game of amateur leauge kickball? If you sit in just the right spot, the smell coming off the creek will render you instantly unconscious and you can just pretend that you had fun after someone throws a jug of steaming hot gatorade in your face to revive you. And if, by some Act of Awesome, you survive the sweet stench of sewer, you can use it as an insanity-inducing excuse that caused you to punch random players in the face. Like the shadow-kicking spaz in spandex who stood behind every player up at kick and tried to steal the ball. Or the 87 year old cougar in hot pants and heels who just came from an afternoon at the Tan & Wax to play with some boy’s ball. Wait a minute, punching old ladies is mean. Maybe you could just push her down and steal her cigarettes, instead. If anyone says anything, tell everyone you did it for the baby and then use your web shooters to swing back to the get away jeep. Just watch out for the Dread Pirate Roberts, ‘cuz he’s on the team.

Or is that Kenny Rogers? Goin’ right into the dang-er zone….