|Juice boxes for adults. I’d like a case, please.|
- So, man gets hit by drunk fuck assmonkey and nearly croaks.
- Man recovers, decides life’s way too short to continue doing what he’s been doing (just getting by) and wants to follow his passions.
- Man also sick as fuck about the frozen tundra’s endless miserable winter.
- Man finds the only goddamned school for said passions is in a state both he and his wife swore they’d never live in.
- Man gets into said school.
- Fool woman finds a job in the same town.
- Job INSISTS on moving 6 weeks earlier than planned, before the funds for said move are actually available, before any place to live has been secured, before any renter has been found for the Tundra house.
- Woman is now bald and sitting on the floor crying incoherently*.
- SEND ADULT JUICE BOXES! STAT!
- Lesson 1: ALWAYS say your favorite place on earth is the one place you’ll never move to, because apparently Texas is more powerful than “we’re never moving there.”
- Lesson 2: I’m NEVER living in Ireland. I’m NEVER living in Ireland. I’m NEVER living in Ireland. I’m NEVER living in Ireland…
*I’m not actually losing my mind all the way…just part of the way. I have some hair left.
Also, the moving company estimators were probably horrified at the number of random sex toys piled up in my office (I shut down the Party Gals business to move and am getting rid of a bunch of stuff).
Apparently one foolishly mentioned (in an unpleasant way) that we sure do have a lot of weapons in our house. This was after he disparaged the dogs. That company will not be getting our business. Asshole. I suppose it’s fair that Renaissance Festival weirdos like us with a large collection of swords could be seen as scary. I prefer to think of us as appropriately weird. So there.