My Story, Yours Too.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The good: I'm on vacation and taking a little trip.
The bad: I'll be away from you until the end of the week. I will miss you very much.
The conehead: Must I spell it out for you? Geeze! Yes, yes, that photo! Yes, THAT one! Come on, now. I'm sure I had a lovely personality at that time, people. Afterall, I was the perfect mix of Archie Bunker (albeit smaller and less bigoted) and Connie Conehead (see below link for this reference). Note the sprout sprouting forth from my little conehead.
Okay dear friend who is laughing at me and not with me at this precise moment, do you have an embarrassing baby picture that you're deranged enough to publish for the world to see? I didn't think so. Alrighty, then..let me just turn your attention to the adorably endearing photo on the left in which my mommy and I are happy to see each other. Note: this picture was taken during the same month of the conehead crisis. It seems my sprouting conehead was a short lived phase. Some might call me lucky. Others might call me a little conehead. The wisest of all stay away (far, far away - outside of the range of a phone signal).
In order to assure that you are adequately entertained in my absence, I leave you with this link. Please enjoy a visit to the home of the Conehead Family. Connie is the daughter. You might perhaps notice a resemblance with my photo.
..if only accidentally.
I took this picture in Jamaica. My only goal was to snap before the diver hit the water. Yet, he and the sailor were so kind as to make for an awesomely coordinated photo. Note how his body is perfectly aligned with the mast of the boat. Some things truly are perfect, if only by accident.
Friday, June 25, 2010
I turn the big double-4 on Monday. How did that happen? I must have been napping. It's not terribly bad, though. It's just somewhat bad. 4 isn't an odd number or anything. It's the number of leaves on a lucky clover, after all. Plus, there's Vick's FORmula 44D. How would we clear our sinuses without that stuff? (I know, there are tons of other remedies, but let's not be distracted by those right now.) Wondrous of all, there are the 3-plus-one stooges. Thus, I have every reason to embrace them. Not, not the 3-stooges, though Curly was kinda cute. He's dead though. (Buried, you know.) The moral here is that I should embrace the double 4 thing.
Sometimes a person's just not in the mood for embracement.
Here's a cynical Robynism for ya: Age is but the hate of time.
Then again, I see that I'm coming upon 4x50 followers, at which point I will have the good FORtune of doing a Rawkn Robyn Happy Dance FOR a minute or 4. I promise not to vlog about it, FOR your sake and all.
40+ Chocolate kisses FOR a happy Friday and weekend!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Nevertheless, and as I was profoundly declaring, I’m running for public office. Said office would be a little postal station just around the corner that's open to the public. I figure I need the exercise. Plus, I have a platform. Since I’m short, I need one to wash dishes and all. Some might call it a step ladder, but platform makes me sound even more glorious than I choose to think I am. No need to ridicule me, my peeps. I do have a political agenda. It has to do with dates, all dates, and we know how I feel about dates. Naturally, my agenda involves banning all dates. I’m not even talking about the BDFH (blind date from hell) thing. I’m talking about all of the miserable, sappy anniversaries, birthdays and holidays. They shall all be banned, with a few exceptions. We can keep any blogoversaries or blog milestones, as we bloggers are the most important people in the blogosphere.
Back to my political agenda, which I will now spell out as follows:
~ Birthday celebrations shall heretofore be banned past age 29, but reinstituted at age 100.
~ Anniversary celebrations shall heretofore be banned.
~ Holidays shall heretofore be banned from every single calendar.
~ One holiday will heretofore be added to every single calendar: a day to commemorate the life and death (with emphasis on the latter) of the person(s) who invented holidays and anniversary celebrations.
Seriously, did you ever think what it was for us little Jewish kids to be instructed to make a Christmas card every year, much less sit on Santa's Gentilic lap? More seriously, not every child is fortunate to have both parents around. What happens to them when it comes time to make a Mother’s or Father’s Day gift? Isn’t the joy some parents feel on these days when their child brings home a paper mache paperweight trumped by the pain some other kids feel on these days because they don't have a parent to give their paper mache paperweight to? Furthermore, birthdays come equipped with a package of angst for those over 29 and under 100, and -well- don’t even get me started on Valentine’s Day! Oh no, no I say. Let’s not get me going on that one, not in June!
As a caveat (in microscopic script at the bottom of my platform statement), you get to celebrate anything you like. I want a few votes, after all. Just celebrate in private. Will ya? It need not be a worldwide in-your-face shindig, to make the rest of us non-celebratory types miserable.
I need to win fast, and absentee ballots will only be accepted in the state of Florida. (They like counting those hanging chads over there.) Please hurry. I’ve got lots of stuff on the calendar in the coming week that I’d like to extinguish: my mom’s birthday (she would be turning 75 if she were still alive), my parents’ anniversary (it would’ve been their 46th if, if, if..), my birthday (it will be my 34th give or give 10 years), and my wedding anniversary. It's all pretty darn depressing, and I don’t need the added reminders of a date on the calendar. I prefer denial, chocolate, and a political victory. It is the American way, after all. Plus, it appears to be the only way I'll ever get some action - if you know what I mean. So vote for me! Ban all dates!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Judgment of Dissolution reclines amidst old tax forms to collect dust: the tragic culmination of a 13-month marriage followed by 13 months of divorce proceedings. I sank from ecstasy to despair within a heartbeat.
Naturally, my mind gravitates to chocolate cake. Not just any cake, mind you, the wedding cake. Wiping my saliva, I recall the deep brown cake iced with shimmering sweet raspberry filling lost in precious whipped buttery cream, united by a staunch but delicately flowered white chocolate frosting.
That night, my piece was scrumptious. I wasn’t sated, though. Something wasn’t altogether right. What perhaps detracted from its zest were the accumulated annoyances of others’ neuroses. It’s amazing how fanatical people get when it’s someone else’s turn in the spotlight. Moments ran through my head, as the chocolate fought to settle into my deep, dark insides.
“Robyn!” Ellie snapped whilst clenching my left forearm, “due to recurring muscle spasms shooting down my neck and all the way through to my fingertips, with particular acuity in my right pinkie, I can’t applaud for you when the rabbi presents the new couple. I hope you won’t mind. Heck, you might not notice. It’s just this chronic pain that acts up sporadically. The Doctor said I should go easy on it. My boss, John, you know, the one with the big mustache, suggested disability leave. I'm sure you’re busy. But I thought you should know. You understand. Right?”
“Sure, Ellie. Just let go of my arm before I show you what a real muscle spasm feels like.”
“Robyn, I know there’s no food in the sanctuary. I’m just going to slip some Corn Puffs in my jacket pocket. See, it’s in this little Tupper Ware container. Well, it’s Rubbermaid, actually. Those are cheaper. My sweetie eats hourly, and I thought I shouldn’t breast feed during the ceremony. Is that okay?” I dashed off with a nod. It mattered not whether I, or even God, consented.
Francine called during my manicure, demanding a ride. There was no “How are you feeling today?” No “I can’t believe you’re getting married.” No “What’s up?” Just “Coordinate my commute from the airport, to the hotel, and back home before dark. We don’t want to get in too late. I’ve gotta catch an early morning flight.”
Sam volunteered to videotape the entire event. He took his role seriously, ordering guests to position themselves just so, get out of the way, and stop blocking the light. Next week, we discovered that his expertise was less than expert. Sam got great shots of the ceiling but missed the vows, kiss, and glass shattering “Mazel Tov” moment.
“Hey, he shouldn't take pictures in the sanctuary! Robyn, what’s going on? I assumed this was a Conservative Temple. The meal will be kosher, right? I didn’t have much for lunch.” Claire further demanded that the wedding party members (of which she was one, being Dad’s girlfriend and all) count 1-one-thousand et cetera through 20 before embarking down the aisle. This might have worked, but she was a painstakingly slow walker. The rest of us needed to inconspicuously jog to compensate.
I can’t forget the DJ’s. They spun a great music, and we all enjoyed the party. They took themselves on a well deserved break for an hour or so mid-way through. It must be difficult to simultaneously eat and work an iPod, especially when I had already loaded said iPod with our chosen songs. This must be extra tricky, though, when one ignores the couple’s music requests. Nice guys, though, and they appeared to really enjoy the meal. I’m happy for them. I really am.
Indulge me momentarily, dear reader. I must share that I looked stunningly gorgeous that evening. My glimmering beaded, elegant, antique style dress fit like silk caressing my feminine figure. I was a picture of grace and beauty. My need to emphasis this fact stems from the reality that no one complimented my appearance. I thought it common knowledge to tell the bride how beautiful she looks, even the most plain of them, if only because of the thousands spent on the hoopla.
Heck, no one even stood when I walked down the aisle. Nobody! That’s the moment every girl dreams about, and they failed me. People!? Why? Why did you fall short of arising to offer your full reverence, or a mere squat?
Dawn, always dazzling, worried. She tailored her dress to minimize the cleavage factor. “Does this look okay? Will the rabbi be offended?” “No, sis. He’s gay. He won’t notice.” That one was easy. Next!
Dad adorned a white shirt to accent his all-black suit. “How’s my tie? Do I look okay?” “Sure, dad,” I said with confidence. “The pimp look is in this year.”
In the midst of picture taking, the groom (naturally) leaves to take his car for a car wash. An hour later, he had neither returned nor responded to my panicky calls. When he finally arrived, he explained that he mistakenly left the phone on the car’s hood. It must have fallen and gotten run over at some point. No time for condolences. The music was starting.
Hold on!” The caterer bursts in and blurts out. “My back is killing me. I have a splitting headache, and my assistant bailed. I need help unloading the truck.” I suppose I should be relieved I didn’t have to cook the meal. I’m not sure how she managed that one, and the food was more than decent. I expect it helped to ignore our agreed upon dinner menu. Further, she failed to deliver champagne to the tables. We were toasted with empty glasses and bewilderment. Perhaps someone enjoyed the booze behind the scenes. She capped her performance by handing her bill to the groom, then standing in the middle of the dance floor.
“Oops, it was three times my original quote. Just don’t tell Robyn until after the honeymoon. You too have a great trip. Oh, and you can keep the cake cutter.”
Alas, the family needed to depart, leaving clean-up duties to the bride and groom. Thankfully, a loyal friend offered assistance. Alas again, this friend needed a ride home.
“See ya,” I said as he departed solo in a car decorated by “Just Married” and “Down with Bush.”
One clear thought occupied my frontal lobe as the last crumb settled in: More! More cake. Let me eat more cake.
I ran into the kitchen and haphazardly wrapped the remainder of wedding cake.
Over the coming weeks, or perhaps just hours, I ravaged that delectable chocolate raspberry laced butter creamy cake, flowered delicately in white chocolate frosting. I consumed it for breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks, dessert, and a simple pick-me-up. Screw the tradition of freezing the left over cake. Let me eat cake, I said and continue to say at any appropriate or not-so-appropriate opportunity. That particular cake was purely sweet and deliciously, even if not altogether right.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
As this ceremony celebrates the covenant that is sealed with abiding love, so does this day promise the sweetness of that family union that is founded on dedication and commitment, on duty and self consecration.
I can take the rain on the roof of this empty house
With this ring, be consecrated to me as my wife with abiding love.
What hurts the most
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Happy Father's Day, Dad and Jonathan!
Friday, June 18, 2010
Let's take a look at Mr. Special. Note: In California, one does not strive to achieve "special" status. It's the special ones who got to ride the short bus home from school - once they located the bus stop. Please understand that I'm not saying there is anything wrong with being special. I'm not insensitive that way. [I'm insensitive much more generally. I thought you knew that by now.] As a Social Worker, I've assisted many wonderfully special people. I just have a slight bias in favor of dating men who are not so special.
Years ago, however, a certain special BDFH arrived on time to the Park Street Cafe. I found him handsome, and it was downhill from there. Mr. Special proceeded to grab a napkin on which to diagram his inner ear. He had some hearing loss that was surgically corrected. Thus I was clearly in need of the full description. (Thankfully, I was not subjected to flow charts or a powerpoint presentation.)
Into some boring conversation, I awoke to learn that Mr. Special needed to excuse himself to use the restroom. The restroom, FYI, was through the back door and down a walkway. Several minutes later, Mr. Special returned to report that he was unable to figure out how to open the back door. Mr. Special apparently did not realize you needed to push on the door in order to open it. He sat back down, and I guess he held it in. I'm guessing he's still holding it in.
We talked a bit more, and I told Mr. Special that I taught preschool. Mr. Special asked, "Does preschool come before or after kindergarten?" Mr. Special did not realize that the word preschool is not the word postschool nor the word duringschool but synonymous with the word youreallyarestupidaren'tyou?.
Finally, the date was over, at least for me. Mr. Special asked if I wanted to walk to the beach with him. It was just a few short blocks away. I told Mr. Special that, no, you need to find it on your own. Head towards the water. It's blue. Walk past Peter Pan preschool; you'll see it before Dumbo the Elephant Elementary School. No, I didn't actually tell him that. It was worse, at least for him. I let Mr. Special get lost on his own, telling him I needed to do my grocery shopping.
Years later, Mr. Special is likely still looking for the ocean.
The moral of this case study: You can lead a date to water, but you can't make him think!
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
"You're not the one for me," he declared. "It's a blessing I've realized that now. I'm saving us both from getting more serious. You'll be fine. Better off even. It's just a temporary pain."
Loosening my grip on the telephone receiver, I moved in closer to my Tv screen. As the man I loved was cutting me out of his life, the President was declaring war on Iraq. "We'll spare lives, prevent future attacks, end their evils, and save the civilians of Iraq. We're gonna preserve this great nation and all it stands for. God bless America!" He was saving us from otherwise inevitable horrors and, perhaps, the end of life as we know it. It's a good thing, something to celebrate!
I suddenly felt my heart eclipse global demise. I'll never again experience the tender hopefulness of his touch. We won't fight playfully for use of his car's cupholder on the next roadtrip. No more chances to gloat over a scrabble victory. We won't share laughter about silly things, have tickle fights, or heat up his Volvo's backseat at the drive-in. It's for the best. We're both free to date other people. What a good thing!
Numbness overcame me. The world will never be the same. Families from all walks of life will never again know the security of a daily routine. Too many hearts will be pierced by interminable pain. Hatred, torture, brutality, murderous rampages, a blood stained earth. "It's for the best. It has to be done. We have to act now. It's a truly good thing!"
I shrunk into the nightmares of the moment. We won't walk on the beach hand in hand again. We won't talk for hours about nothing in particular and everything important. We won't lay meditatively in each other's arms. We won't share stories about childhood escapades, recite love poems to each other, or revel in dreams of our happy future together. Thank God I have my freedom! It's for the best!
Damn you for single-handedly stealing it all away! Damn you for demolishing something untainted. Damn you for crushing my heart and soul and dreams in the name of righteousness, in God's name even, in the name of what's best for me! Damn you for killing off all things good in the perverse name of some greater good!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
It's a short stroll from my apartment. The waves crash feverishly against the shore. Yet it lifts me to a calming, mezermizing serenity. I sink into the grains of sand, where I can just be for hours on end. I contemplate it all and realize nothing. Something about the rhythmic explosion of water crashing onto the land flips on a switch in my head that opens up a world of worlds, a universe in which to enter unconsciously yet knowingly. I hear the waves, but I don't hear them. Instead, I hear my voice, the voices of family and friends, the voice of an Energy greater than it all, and bitter voices too: those who hated or seemed to hate me, those I hurt or think I did. They are all with me, as I am contained by the warming grains of sand. They are all with me, taking me back to places I've been, being with me here and now, taking me to places I have yet to go, or not go. It all comes together in this time and place. I only moved here to be closer to the ocean. I didn't know I was coming home.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
About Me And The Definition Of Hypersensitivity-Shy, Tends To Get Too Emotional, Can't Take It Easy, Feels Gloomy And Distraught Frequently, Not Confident, Dislikes Themself, Prone To Paranoia, Affected By The Moods Of Others, Broody, Ideal Love Seeking, Dramatic, Tempermental, Impressionable,
For: A date
87 years old
About Me: Intelligent, witty, well-read, like challenges, former college dean, love eating out, walk daily, like going to movies I am shocked and disgusted, grandpa. But perhaps there's a woman half your age who wants you. It's not this girl; I felt queazy watching "Harold and Maude." Good luck, old man.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
The thing is, I was a recipient of some awards in the past several weeks and never fully expressed my gratitude. The other thing is that the energy of the universe is just warped, moreso than ever. Wouldn't you say? Times are extra tough. I hope to spread some sweetness to folks who could use a little pick-me-up.
So, feel free to steal this kiss. Post it on your blog, and/or pass it on as you wish. The only condition is that there are no conditions. You need not divulge your most horrifyingly embarrassing moment in life. You need not award this to 17 of your favorite bloggers, and you can even reject this kiss and leave it here. Again, I simply request that you do not barf in my face. Thank you.
These are some folks who I'd like to pass this on to (in addition to everyone who reads this). These are also very nice, creative, honest folks whose blogs I highly recommend:
Pat Tillett Thanks for the White Russian, Pat. It never tasted so heavenly!
Cal - a very nice, creative, and brilliant guy who doesn't ever stop posting. He's a great commentator too. Amazing!
Tuppence This sweet lady shares great, fun adventures - including a recent trip to Rome.
Marnie Thanks for being such a staunch and fun follower, Marnie. I love your spunk and zest for life!
MissNikki Her blog, Life's A Bitch, is full of humour and honesty - just the way I like it.
To all of my new followers, especially the 40+ crowd, please take a kiss too. Special mention to Java who helps bring us together. It's nice to not feel so old or, at least, not feel alone in feeling so old. A kiss to you, Java!
My friend, TheInvisibleSeductress, a kiss to help you get through it all! (Close your eyes and pretend it's from Jake or -well- a man).
TSHendrik still has my favorite blog. I want to thank you again, Tim, for the CSN giveaway. My nephew called (with some help) to tell me (with some help) that he was cutting the challah bread (with no help). That would be the wooden bread with the shabbat kit I ordered. He then informed me "You sent it to me." That made my day!
Sending good thoughts as you recover and regroup from the flood. A kiss to you!
Bumpkin and her husband (Lisa and John) are surviving the daily trials of the oil spill. They are literally fighting the fight -physically, emotionally, and in every way they can. Bumpkin's blog gives us the real story, unlike any "news" station or paper. This lady's also a burst of fresh air and fun-loving creative energy. A kiss to you and the Captain, Bumpkin!
Some of my new bloggy friends who need our prayers and/or good vibes (Please feel free to add names in the comments section, as I know there are lots more folks who need our support):
Sonya and her sister, Sandi
Faith, healing, gratitude, blessings, prayers, good thoughts, strength, and chocolate kisses one and all!
Monday, June 7, 2010
1) Silly mistake,
2) Foolish person, or
3) Woman’s breast.
I can safely say, then, that I hate really big boobs. What irks me most in the boob arena is when said boob makes lots of money for: (1) being said boob, (2) making said boob, or (3) having a pair of said boobs.
Truth be told, I’ve got ‘em. I mean, I’m rather top-heavy. My bra size is..Hey, wait a minute, you’re not getting that information from me! (Nice try, though.) I did inherit my maternal Jewish ancestors’ Ashkenazi bosomy figure. Should I live to be a Jewish ancestor (This it should be everybody’s goal, it should.), my bosoms will surely reach the floor – and not just while I’m engaged in a raucous game of Twister at the Old Jewish Home for Aged Jewish Ancestors. I suppose I’ll save on having to mop the floor. But let’s not talk about my bosoms anymore. Oy vey. I can’t believe you got me started on that topic!
Let’s now discuss the boobs pictured above. To the right is model Sheyla Hershey. The gal’s got the world’s biggest pair, size KKK. Thus, the world’s biggest breasts are the size of one of the world’s most vile racist organizations in history. This cannot be a mere coincidence, right? She lives in Texas, after all.
To the left is Heidi Montag, who is crying even though she is reportedly incapable of crying due to having undergone 13 elective surgeries. Ms. Hershey imparts caring advice for Ms. Montag. “Heidi should stop,” Sheyla states astutely. “Having people stare at you can become uncomfortable. They’ll come up to you out of nowhere.” Um, Ms. Hershey, let’s back up. I know it’s hard for you to move backward, given gravity and all, but did you not undergo this uber enhancement for the sake of attention? Further, how could people approach you from a direct line of vision? It would surely be risky to do so. Thus, while they appear to be coming out of nowhere, they are merely entering the scene from whence entry is logistically feasible.
Another intellectual powerhouse, Life & Style Magazine, claims Heidi is “forced into more surgery, thereby risking her life.” Dear reader, don’t you hate it when you already look objectively gorgeous but you’re forced into your 14th cosmetic surgery? I know I do.I don’t mean to make light of the topic. [There’s nothing light about it; Heidi’s going for breasts that will weigh 7 pounds each. Really.] Seriously, the breast should not be called a boob in the first place. There are far too many messages that demean and objectify women. One wonders where this term came from. Note that Oxford claims uncertainty on the matter. I don’t trust this Oxford fellow. But really, what do breasts and fools have in common? They certainly don’t look or act alike. Fools are never pretty to look at, nor do they secrete milk. Okay, maybe some do. I suppose some boobs and breasts share a squishyness factor, but that’s about it. As long as the term holds, I suggest every women gets a couple of fools to undergo the mammogram exam for us. We might as well milk it, whether or not we're lactating.
In closing this piece of literary foolishness, there’s nothing wrong with a grown adult making a thoughtful decision to undergo elective surgery – once or perhaps twice. I think it’s rather concerning that people are able to get their umpteenth cosmetic procedure, though. The biggest boobs of all are the surgeons! One (e.g., me) might suggest these so-called Doctors have strayed from the Hippocratic Oath. After all, surgery is surgery. It’s all traumatic and risky for the body and, perhaps, mind. However, plastic surgery is sugar coated with names like “tummy tuck.” It's become so commonplace. I can envision the future drive thru. A car pulls up to the speaker at In and Out, requesting 2 super value deals. The cashier asks, “Would you like fries with those enhancements? Today’s special side is the face lift, tummy tuck combo. Large or small cups?”
Perhaps the most we can hope for, through all of this boobishness, is that breasts will re-claim their name and boobs will take up a lot less space on this planet.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Back in the day,
We meant you and me.
To feel was to touch.
To touch set you free.
Courage and valor defined one as great -
Not being a whiney, crazed parent of eight.
When actors could act,
Performers could sing,
Reality shows starred Carson and Bing.
Back in the day,
Mail came to your door.
Wrappers bore gifts.
You walked to the store.
Ice cream trucks stopped on the corner street.
Fifteen cent big sticks, a most awesome treat.
Nice girls didn’t google, switch users or tweet.
Blackberries were juicy and raspberries, sweet.
Nice guys didn’t sag, log off or shut down.
When sex was sacred, and text, just a noun.
Back In the day, botox was unknown.
Surgery was for illness,
Cocktails for the grown.
Cells made up blood.
Breakfast, with Tang.
TVs had antennas, and
Back in the day,
You ne’er felt hella radWhen your BFF told you
Your outfit looked bad.
I.M. meant I am.
To chat meant to talk.
You swam with you tube,
And teachers used chalk.
Back in the day,
A Chevrolet brought you clout.
Cowboys re-booted before stepping out.
Blue tooth was concerning.
Hot meant close to burning.
Fruit smoothies were exotic.
Back in the day,
Old school was a house.
A pad for a bachelor,
And cheese for a mouse.
Feel me, and don’t weep.
Oprah continues to represent the peep (for another minute).
And back in the day, who’d ever dream
That a Black man would hold the office Supreme.
We go backwards and forwards,
Forwards and then back,
In circles, and sideways,
But land up on track.
Back in the day...
We means you and me.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
2) I won’t have one ever again. I swear.
3) The next one I have will look like this. I swear. (Note: You’d swear too if you had to date this guy.)
4) He might offer to pick up the tab if I order tap water.
5) I like a slice of lemon with my water and will therefore bring a quarter.
6) While he boasts about his doting mother, I will fantasize about more pleasant activities (e.g., getting a root canal or styling Justin Bieber’s hair).
7) If and only if he looks like this, he will try to kiss me.
8) If and only if he looks like this and tries to kiss me, I will barf on his face.
9) Then, he will look the same.
10) I do the BDFH thing for entertainment purposes only.
11) Your entertainment, not mine.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Marijuana Educators Needed-
·This is a part-time job.
·Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
·Please, no phone calls about this job!
·Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
2) I graduated from High School.
3) I’m routinely asked, “What the hell are you on?”
4) I get ravenously hungry when I haven’t eaten in 12 minutes.
5) I once listened to the Doobie Brothers, accidentally. (I thought they were the Bee Gees.)
Reefers available upon request.