I punked out and dragged my ass back to work. So here I sit, tragically uninspired to do anything but talk about my family. I can't seem to find the time to go to a real psychiatrist, so this blog proves helpful.
My family is a frightening lot. My older sister...! To think that Terri Schiavo had to die when LT continues to walk this earth with perfectly good organs she could have donated (God knows she's not using them- her brain, for instance. Showroom new.) Anyway, I was particularly struck by the dissimilarities between my mother and me this morning at shower time. After I dragged my son's filthy ass kicking and screaming into the shower, he announced that he couldn't hear his radio. He pouted his soaking wet, hairless whippet-like self across the hall and jacked his CD's volume up to 11. And he wasn't exactly listening to Burt Bacharach, either. My first reaction was to yank his player from the wall and throw it in the shower with him, then I thought, "Why ruin his morning? It's only for a few minutes and I, too, fucks with Linkin Park." And what do you know? When he got out of the shower, he turned it down and began pouting about something completely new.
My mom would have thrown the radio into the shower with me and blamed me for my own electrocution.
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