Dead Downton

I think I might be having a mental breakdown.

Not just any old breakdown.

 

This kind.

Why, you ask?

 

 It's not because I'm moving in a mere 46 hours and I've barely packed a thing.

Or that today my nanny-child told me, "Elmo-ly, you're pretty, but your singing is ugly."

It's because I just read this.

Too many emotions to work through. Anger? Hurt? Resentment? Betrayal? YES. To name a few.

I'm going to leave you now so I can start working on a seething letter to PBS wishing horrible things upon them (including funding for Big Bird getting cut. Puppets creep me out)

Downton Abbey, 

If this is true, you're dead to me.

Thanksgiving Fashion

Oh hello, I know what you're thinking. You don't hear from me in nearly 6 weeks and you're giving me another link-up post (read as "the lazy blogger's post) to read? Well, my wonderful readers the answer to that question is an overwhelming yes, and you won't get any apologies out me, so stop waiting for one. Instead focus on that which is the glory of the photo below.

Officially Sponsored by the color Coral and Lions coming out of the wall.

I, sneakily suggested we, "line up by age." But I'll be honest for a slow second and tell you that I really just wanted to be the center of attention. (Maybe I can blame that on middle child syndrome?)
The hawt mama winking at the camera would be my wonderful mother who gave me both her beauty and attitude featured very clearly in the next photo:

Sass.

And the polka dot princess is the younger sister affectionately known as Sarah aka "Fashionista" because she schools me in both hair, and accessorizing daily. She also sings, writes, draws, sews and acts. No, there isn't anything she can't do well. Don't ask, it will damage your self esteem.

13 yr old prego? Scandal

She isn't growing a child inside of her, so don't freak out. We just know how much Grace loves poses like this so we thought we would throw her a bone on Thanksgiving.

Now that I'm done talking up two of my eight favorite family members, I'll finally conclude with the clean deets about where our outfits hail from and sign off with love and affection.

Mom: Her Closet (duh, I really have no idea where my mom shops these days)

Sarah: The mall, where every 13 year old girl longs to spend her babysitting income on Friday nights

Emily: I was kind of embarrassed when I realized every single piece of clothing I was wearing came from Target, with the exception of my boots. They are from this trendy little boutique known as Ross. Then I realized, I don't have the luxury of being embarrassed. Plus in my opinion Target is a perfectly acceptable place spend 5/6ths of my discretionary income and if someone has a problem with that, I really don't care to defend myself to them.

Go visit The Camp for true fashion posts.

And that was all she wrote.

Link Up Virgin

*Cue witty intro on how this is my first time 'linking up' with any blog ever and so I figure why not link up with with the wildly popular  Jen over at Conversion Diary?

1. Because I know you lovely folks (my mother) haven't slept a teeny tiny bit since I announced my imitate death in the last post, I want you to know I'm surviving. Barely. Did anyone notice the stock in Kleenex go up last week? I did, because I filled 1.25 trash bags full of the nastiest used tissues of all time. I can't even imagine using handkerchiefs back in the day.

2. Since hearing about my own health is much too personal and I would never over share, I'll let you about my Nanny Mom's health instead. Yesterday she underwent emergency surgery for several abdominal pain. Appendicitis did not get the best of her, and she is currently back home resting. Any prayers you want to offer for her recovery are generously accepted and appreciated.

3. Because of this surgery, I ended up having some where between a 12-16 hour work day. (Closer to the 14 hour mark, but if felt like 48). Anyway, it sounds weird and is much too complicated to explain why, but I have never actually met the father of these kids...until yesterday. The first encounter with "Nanny Dad" deserves it own Take so please skip down.

4. He walked in for a brief teeth cleaning, and change of clothes before going back to the hospital only to find his nanny *ahem* me, semi- drooling on his suede leather couch while one of his 11 month old chillens was learning the important lesson of crying it out (read horrendous and incredibly painful lesson even when its not your own child). After the initial joke of "I swear I'm not being negligent" wore off, I wiped the drool from my brow, shook his hand and asked if he needed me to stay late? He said only if it wasn't too much trouble. So, of course being the professional that I am, I said, "No, of course not. Don't worry about a thing, just go be with your wife." OH WAIT. That would have been the normal response. The one I was supposed to learn in public school or something. Because instead I responded with, "Of course I can, after I give the twins their hot toddy around 5:30 it'll be a breeze anyway." Yes. That. Did. Just. Happen. I told this sleep deprived man, whose wife is in the hospital not to worry about his kids. This alcoholic was taking care of things at home. I almost fired myself on the spot.

5. Cue his reaction. Without skipping a beat, he responded with, "Well okay, but the boys really prefer bourbon over whiskey so just keep that in mind."  It was awesome. And I'm so happy to be working for such a great family.

6. Oh, follow up story. On his way out, he paused looked at my shirt and asked, "Is that blood?" Then I went on to explain that yes it was, but it was my blood and not his children's and that I don't have HIV or anything so once again, his children are perfectly safe in my ever capable care.

7. Simply put, yesterday was not the day I would submit to any contests labeled, Best Nanny Ever, Semi-Competent Employee or even Has a Handle On Basic Hygiene.

And so puts a bloody end my very first quick take Link up. Thanks for taking charity cases like me Jen!

A Long Time Ago In A Reality Far Far Away...

I started a blog. Then I fell off the Blogwagon and didn't know how to get back on. My readers, my dear wonderful, loyal readers have surely abandoned me by now and I thought I needed a stellar post worthy of breaking my silence to publish...turns out I just need to fall deathly sick on a weekend.

Judge away for not posting in such a long time, but in this period of time I have had 4 different jobs, a family reunion, a Mumford and Sons concert to attend and...well that's about it actually. Sorry about that.

Moving onward and downward to this plague. I think it's the same one that brought death to the eldest of the Pharaoh's Sons, the one that convinced Pharaoh to let God's people go, and the one that resurfaced in the middle ages when children made up that mildly cheery, but actually incredibly depressing song that went something like, "Ring around the rosey, a pocket full of nasty tissues, ashes ashes, we're going to suck the life out of you until you give in and watch hours (and hoursss) of Dawson's creek and then all fall down?" Yup, that's the one.

I think the worst was when I started hallucinating and texting my friends about my imminent death and bequeathing my most beloved objects to them. (My leather jacket, sky miles from SouthWest, etc) I even tried giving my sense of humor to someone but they politely declined calling it sarcastic and unforgiving. Oops.

Oh well such is the life. If I do in fact survive this, I'll probably drop another post about my adventures of being sick, creating home remedies from Pinterest and picking up the youngest Seaton Son up from a Greyhound bus station in one of the worst areas of town around Scare O'clock last night. (But I'll keep it PG because the parentals don't need to know about the gory deets).

That's all for now. Many thanks to you lovely readers for well, reading. I hope this plague isn't contagious via the interwebs.

My Shallow Existance

Sometimes I like to think my prayer is really deep, genuine, mystical, mindblowingly (not a real word, deal with it) awesome and then other times I sit down and say, "Jesus, (pause for dramatic affect) Thanks for making me HOT!"

I know that might come as a surprise seeing as the last time I blogged about such a topic I was tipsy from an ill advised creamy pumpkin liqueur purchase and not in best mindset, but tonight I'm callin' it like I see it. And that is what my prayer consisted of--Thanking the Good Lord for my Hotness Factor.

Oh well, you lose some -- you lose some more.

Also, since I've clearly lost all hope for my moral integrity to remain in tact on this blog and in the real world, I might as well be honest about my daily dose of literature and share with you this trashy garbage I can't wait to devour the moment it hits Netflix.

Catchy sign off,

~Emily
Oh!...Were you waiting for me to give some deep reflection on how having normal conversations with the Lord produces a more 'personal' relationship or something? Have you not been paying attention? Here at Justweirdenough we set impossibly low standards and hit the nail on the head every couple of months when I drag my head out of People long enough to write my own trash. If you're really desperate though give this a once over. He does a wonderful job of easing my mind by rationalizing that even the more distracted, directionless prayer has to be doing us some good.

*Feel free to leave comments on how to focus in prayer and I'll feel free to leave my eyes in the permanently elevated position known as the eye roll. 

Real Life

"Well, it's not actually my goal in life to look 'hot'."

I'll give you one guess as to which job I uttered this sentence at earlier today.

You have two options:

Nannying for two boys ages 5 and 8, or a completely demoralized fine dining restaurant where you're publicly ridiculed for your lack of knowledge on how to operate a bong.

I know what you're thinking. Demoralized restaurant? Okay fine, I'll give you one more guess.

That's right ladies and gents I felt the need to explain this to an 8 year old today. If you were hoping for some sort of glory story, renewed hope in humanity, or a post on the innocence of children please go ahead and hit CTL + Z (or Command + Q for my mac followers) because you will find no such positivity around these here parts for at least a fort night.

I wish I could walk you through the events that led up to this statement, but the steam blowing out my ears is clouding up the room and making it hard to see the computer screen and to find the high amounts of liquor necessary to subdue the horrendous, judgmental and blanketed statements I'm about to make about the state of our society.

Bear with me while I stumble my way through our foggy living room and find some liquor.

Brb.

Two shots of Bailey's and one terrible shot of some Pumpkin liquor (only half joking, sorry Mom) I am feeling much better. As tempted as I am to try and change the world with a sarcasm riddled, anger filled tangent, I think I'll wait till I'm about 20 posts in before getting up on my high and mighty horse and staying there for good.

Till then, please continue to enjoy the substance-less, humorous (hopefully) happenings of my life and take 10 seconds to pray for 8 year old boys everywhere. Actually scratch that. Pray for my soul to have mercy on them and that I don't release my wrath upon one particular 8 year boy tomorrow. I hear internet privileges are hard to come by in prison.

*I rarely succumb to peer pressure, (Liar liar) but I must dedicate this post to my sister who has plugged this pathetic excuse for a blog multiple times and each time I have failed to deliver any post at all, much less one worthy of her compliments. I hope this run-on filled, angry toned, non-proof read post appeases you. 

Harsh.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Just checking, do you want Grandchildren via your third child? Because it kind of seems like you don't.

Love,

Your wonderfully eligible daughter

Back in the day when I was living at home, checking in with my parents was an absolute must if I was out later than say --- 5 pm. It was the law (and rightfully so) to let my parents know where I was at all times. If I mistakenly didn't contact them soon enough I would get the ever scary text: "WHERE ARE YOU!?" I instantly knew I needed to contact them ASAP or fear for my life.

What does this have to do with me being single? I now have an immediate reject button when it comes to being interested in a guy.

It's easy really. If you want to be my FRIEND--shoot my a text. If you want to shoot your chances with me in the foot--send me a text. Perhaps it seems odd, but my parents have instilled a hate-hate relationship with texting. You do it as a necessity. Not as a way to woe me. If you don't like me enough to want to hear my voice, you probably don't like me enough for me to even think about being interested in you. Plain and simple.

Perhaps the letter should read:

Dear Mom and Dad,

Thanks for making it really easy to decide whether or a not a guy is worth practicing my new last name on my note book in my spare time.

Love,

Your ever grateful, albeit ever single daughter

The Numbers Game

Twenty facts that I am certain will bore you to tears, but nonetheless I encourage you to read for the sake of my own self-esteem.

20. The number of consecutive minutes I tried running today. (Skip to number 13 to see how many I actually ran.)

 19.The number of times at work I've explained that "I am one of seven children, all from the same set of parents--who are still happily (until I hear otherwise) married.

18. The number of times people ask "are your parents in a cult or something?" after stating previous fact. (finally, I foresaw the impending question and simply stated "and no, we're not in a cult--so don't ask.")

17. The average number of judgmental glares I get at the park before I swell with anger and blurt out, "No, I didn't have kids when I was 14 years old you dimwit. I'm their nanny."

16. The number of times I repeat, "don't eat meat today, it's Friday, it's Lent, it's Friday, it's Lent." Before I think I'll remember...only to have eaten meat twice on Fridays this year. Total fail.

13. (Cont. from #20) Bet I made you think I lasted the BIG 1-3 huh? Nope. Only twelve. Sorry to disappoint. Trust me, I was disappointed as well. But the chocolate smoothie I devoured afterward helped ease my emotional disappointment.

Oh did I just skip from 16 to 13? Yes, yes I did. If you have a problem with that stop reading now because I'll spoil the ending for you and tell you that numbers 8 and 9 don't make an appearance either.

10. The number of days I will gone on a vacation avoiding reality at all costs.

Stop looking for #8 and #9. I already told you I didn't deem them blog worthy and cut them out of this post.

7. The number of seconds it will take you to read this and realize I couldn't actually come up anything interesting for number 7.

Or Number 6.

5a. The number of times I've been told, "You look JUST like Brittney from Glee!"

5b. The number of times I decided not to take that as a compliment when I googled this "Brittney" character and stumbled upon this little beauty.

4. The number of times I forgot to put on deodorant this week. Oops. Big Oops. (Maybe those judgmental park stares had nothing to with my unwed-teen-mother-look and more with my non-hygienic natural stank)

3. The number of books by Suzanne Collins (The Hunger Games) I have yet to read.
30,000 the number of times I've felt left out via people blogging, facebooking, talking, tweeting and seeing the movie without me.

2. The number of men who saw me trying to lick iced mocha out of my hair this morning after a particularly nasty spill in my car.

And finally (if any of you made it this far) number 1 is a tie-breaker. Split right down the middle between the one man who just laughed at me licking my hair and the other man who clearly thought I had some weird hair eating fetish and wanted to send me to the asylum quicker than you can say 'shebelongsinthecrazybin.'

Did you make it all the way through? Way to go! Give yourself a pat on the back--and then go do something extremely productive to make up for wasting the last 5 minutes of your God given life.

Hasta Luego!

π

Co-worker #3: So, what did you do with your day off?

Emily: Well, it was π day so my friend and I baked a pie. It was fun.

Co-worker #3: Whoa! Emily, I didn't know you were the type?!

Emily: Questioning stare coupled with a slightly awkward silence.

Co-worker #3. Wait, you're saying you 'got baked' yesterday right?

Emily: Oh ha, No. I'm saying I baked a pie. And I ate it. While in a sober state of mind. 'Baking' and 'getting baked' are two different phrases.

This time it was his turn for a questioning stare and an awkward silence. Until he broke the silence with, "Man Emily, you are seriously the weirdest person I know." and walked away with the excuse that he needed to water table 20. 

Thanks co-worker #3. You're not exactly normal in my book either but I'll cover your shift April 20th if you need.

Old Maid

As if having a co-worker strongly suggest that the only way I'll find love is to sign up for Christiansingles.com (since I'm not willing to compromise on the whole 'three months of dating bliss and were living together thing') wasn't enough to make me begin questioning my life choices, I was graced with this conversation at my nanny job today:

While starting the game LIFE (which is entirely too long and complicated even for myself, so why a 5 yr old wanted to play I'll never know) we reached the ever famous 10th square where you get your spouse. In the game of LIFE marriage is guaranteed, one can't move on without it (don't some of us wish real life was like that). Anyway, I rolled severrrral one's in a row and I was clearly behind in LIFE because I still had yet to get husband (in the game and in reality).

Finally the 8 yr old has a little mercy on me and says, "just let Emily move up and have her husband, it's boring when she's this far behind."

To which the 5 yr old promptly responds, "No. Emily will never get married." I'm taken aback because by his tone he has stopped talking about the game and is now talking about reality.

As I wait for him to explain himself, and something cute/redeeming like "She can't get married because I love her too much and I want her to babysit us forever."

 He actually says, "She's waaaay to weird to get married."

O.M.Gsh.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Don't bother saving for a nice cushy retirement home. Just pay for me to get my Home Nursing Aide Certification and I'll be available for the next 50-60 years.

Love,

Your prude of a daughter

Food Coma

Just in case you were wondering what on earth kept me from blogging this weekend (because so far I have been ever so diligent up to this point) I had a surprise visit from what I can only describe as bosom buddies (credit Anne of Green Gables) and I was too busy celebrating a whole host of things:

Engagements! (Congrats Jessica &Elliot)
Two WHOLE days off of work in a row (mini miracle)
Reuniting with previously mentioned bosom buddy after a six month hiatus
Getting 50% off the best Creme Brulee that has even graced itself in my mouth
Bridesmaid shopping
And again, the two full days off of work. It was like a double sabbath. (Is that even possible?)

How did I possible manage so many celebrations in 48 hours you ask? Let the over detailed and repetitive story begin.

We decided to forgo wasting time by documenting the event so fortunately for you fine readers, you'll only have to endure seeing the one and only picture we took all weekend (even though I lugged my 6 oz camera around allll freakin weekend)

Yes, I did win the aware for most unnatural pose ever. The ribbon in on the fridge.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself. This was taken at the end of the weekend. After swindling a much beloved friend (Hilary) into picking Jessica (the newly engaged, brown haired one in the middle) up at the airport because of my ridiculous work schedule, I showed up at my ghetto apt to find the beautiful maiden waiting for me. After the 3 minute uninterrupted hug forced on her by me, low and behold Miss Abbi can'tevertellalieevereverever Jaeger jumped out from the kitchen and sent my into a shock that would have been cute if the circumstances were that she had just come home from a war after 12 months like this little girl...but no, I'm just always looking for a little flare to the dramatic.

And the weekend begins. We ate, we drank, we slept. We repeated. After a self proclaimed feast day we decided to forget any Lenten commitments that might have hindered our celebration in anyway, shape or form. The lowest of low might have been rationalizing that it was "5 o'clock some where" when ordering mimosas bright and early Sunday morning (after Mass of course).

I won't include a list all the food we ate (I've heard rumor that men hate it when you list everything you ate in one day and I'm fairly certain the same goes for blog readers) but when asked for an account of what we did this weekend I might just have to make stuff up to prevent myself from admitting the nasty truth that we ate without a break from dusk till dawn and then dawn till airport drop off where I stopped stuffing my face with white cheddar popcorn for the exact amount of time it took me to give them each both a hug and send them on their merry way.

If you're looking for me, I am now off to eat my way through the 4 boxes of leftovers in my fridge...the only evidence I have (besides the atrocious picture above) that this slice of Heaven did indeed take place.

Until the next time I decide to bore you. 

Much love,

Em

Tips

Just a few nuggets of wisdom I've picked up in the last few weeks on how to survive working in a "secular restaurant" as a Catholic girl:

1. When told by a co-worker they blacked out from drinking last night, don't try to relate it to the time you fell off your horse, got a concussion and blacked out "just like them." They won't understand the correlation. It might however lead to a conversation about "drinking to the point of hilarity" and you know I never leave the house without a good Aquinas quote in tow.

2. When asked if you're "into voodoo" after someone sees you making the sign of the cross before eating, try not to spit food on them from laughing so hard.

Lastly, in all seriousness.
3. Don't be afraid to tell someone you're Catholic. Sure the first words out of their mouth might literally be, "Oh, you're the statue worshiper type huh?" but taken with a little class and a sense of humor you might be able to fight that stereo-type and give someone a little food for thought after you school them on the teaching of intercession AND confession all in one go with this little verse.

Badabingbadaboom. They think I'm a little crazy...but the craziest thing of all is that I totally agree with them.

Hot?

The following is an actual conversation. These are not actors. These are waiters.

Situation: New Job           Time: 11:30 PM (ish)

Scene: Co-workers and myself "hanging-out" (polishing silver) back of house while we talk (semi-complain) about life

Co-worker #1: "Hot people don't have real problems"

Before I could muster out my response of, "Um, excuse me. As a prim/proper Catholic woman I know I should be completely and morally opposed to you calling me that, but thanks(?) For the compliment...also, what do you mean, 'hot people don't have problems?' are you trying to say that deciding between getting a Grande Iced Mocha and a Venti Iced Mocha on my break isn't a real problem!?"

Co-worker #2 chimed in: "Yeah seriously, Jessica Simpson throwing a hissy fit about being pregnant is not news worthy"

Emily: (again thinking to myself) "Oh you weren't calling me hot? But people say I look just like Jessica Simpson!"

Dear Co-workers,

Thanks for:
The two second ego boost.
The immediate serving of humble pie
Inspiration for the latest blog post

Love,
Your not so hot co-worker

Still Bleeding

Dear Mom and Dad,

The Mexican checker at my local grocery store asked me a question today and I'd like to relay it to you.

"How did a white girl like you end up being born in New Mexico?"

Instead of going into the lovely story of my parents relocating to New Mexico for my Dad's job so they could afford things like diapers and wipes for me, I gave him a look that said, "What is a Mexican like you doing out of Mexico." Oops. After I shot him a glare, he quickly apologized and said he was just giving me a hard time. I on the other did not apologize at all. I'm sure I added a couple fort nights of purgatory time to my sentence. What can I say, other than 'sorry I'm not sorry. Not even a little bit.' Maybe in conjunction with working on biting my tongue I should also perpetually wear sunglasses so as to not destroy a man's soul after he says something totally harmless that I take offense at.


Dear Mom and Dad,

If you're looking for me, I'll be in the confession line per yoo-zhoo-uh.

Love, 
You're daughter who repeatedly keeps thinking, "Is Lent over yet? I can't keep striving for perfection under these near impossible conditions"

Judgmental

To Whom It May Concern: (the incredibly old/rude woman sitting next to me in mass)

If you lean over to your husband and complain about the "noisy" baby that is really just babbling to his mother one more time, I am going to personally pray that you go to a special Purgatory where you have to hold a screaming, inconsolable child for several millenia while people judge and ridicule you.

I realize that because of the judgements that were going on in my head during mass, I will probably be sentenced to equal about of time in purgatory listening to your incessant oxygen machine beep every 23 seconds, but I really don't care. It's worth it.

Love,
Your not so friendly pew partner

P.S. I'm curious as to how you had time to complain about the baby when you should have been concentrating on training your mind to say "and with your Spirit," as you have yet to get a single one right.

Blood Loss

Dear Mom and Dad,

I bet you never thought teaching me to be polite just might be the death of me.

Love,

If looks could kill you'd have a felon for a daughter

I know most of you celebrated the feast day of Sts. Cyril and Methodius but for all my secular readers out there, it was Valentine's Day. In celebration of this I decided to get my haircut. Imagine my shock when the hairdresser asked if I had a boyfriend (no shock at all, since hairdressers somehow think that since they hold the power to make you wear a hat for the next 6 weeks they can ask you as many personal questions as they want).

Anyway, when I politely responded that no I didn't. She apologized. For what? For delving into my personal life uninvited? No. She was sorry I didn't have someone to keep me from eating a lb. of chocolate and watching when Harry Met Sally all alone tonight.

What the H does this have to do with me bleeding to death? Well as the conversation continued, I had to bite my tongue so many times it started bleeding!* Some people I swear.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Do band-aids for your tongue exist? Because if so, would you mind swinging by Wal-mart and picking some up? I'm feeling a little faint from loss of blood.

Love,

Your daughter who isn't nearly as polite as you hoped I would be


I can neither confirm or deny if this is an exaggeration but my tongue is sore several hours later

Restaurant Bacon

Growing up my mom would make us pretty much anything we wanted for breakfast. I describe her as a short order cook. The only difference between breakfast at home or at a restaurant was the bacon. At home we ate Turkey Bacon

When I was about 7 I finally picked up on this 'difference' and whenever we would go out to eat I would be sure to ask the waitress, "Do you have restaurant bacon?" This went on for about a year until I was at a friends house. They served me eggs and 'restaurant' bacon. I was so shocked I ran home and told my mom, "Mom! Miss Kitty knows how to make restaurant bacon!"

Dear Mom,

Thanks for saving me from potential heart disease by serving me turkey bacon for most of my life (even if I did feel a little deceived at first). Also, thank you for giving my a great story to tell on a first date that went so poorly I had to break out the 'turkey bacon' childhood story.

LOL (lots of love),

Your 'now basically a vegetarian' daughter

Hygiene?

Dear Mom and Dad,

I can't believe we never had body wash in the house while I was growing up. Do you realize how weird this has made me? How much therapy/blog posting will I have to do before I get over this?


Love,
Spoiled child #3

Letter explained:

I grew up in a home where we didn't use body wash. So sue me.* Instead I used whatever shampoo was lying around the house.

Not only did we not use body wash but I also missed the memo where you're supposed to use a washcloth. During my teenage years whenever I had a sleepover with "hygienic" friends I would grab them a towel and point the way to the shower. Not soon after this, they would ask in a tone of voice that said to me, "you must've just forgotten, but can I have a washcloth?" Even though I was perplexed by this I would indeed hunt one down for them.

What made it worse was when I would visit their house. They would just hand me a washcloth. Instead of admitting I didn't use one, I would fake it. Leaving it wet as if I had used it to my heart's content.

Can you believe this went on for years?

Do you even care? Don't answer that.

The newly embraced weird self now says:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I calculated it out and over the course of my life you have saved me $396.00 by not introducing me to the concept of body wash. Who knows how much you'll save me in the future.

Muchos Gracias,

Dirty child #3



*Actually sue my parents because they are to blame for all my problems remember?

Product of my Parents

I am weird. I blame my parents for this. As is the fashion of today's society to blame anyone but yourself for your problems. But mostly, I thank my parents for this, because let's be honest. If I was too normal, I would blame that on them as well.