And at the 3:52...

...And minus the spell check. Dipshit.

 

I can't update from the office computer. So this absolutely worthless post that I would relegate to the 11:11 is now rerelegated to whenever this actually smtps to the blogger servers. And your hearts!

 

Yesterday was the 11/11, as opposed to the 11:11 (which happens twice a day year round). For her birthday, I took Mom to Ground Kontrol where she obliterated the high score on Q*Bert. And Frogger. She dominates those games.

 

I've had pizza for the last three meals. Dinner, breakfast (leftovers), and now lunch. They say "you are what you eat," so I guess I'm a crusty, greasy motherfucker that smells like cheese. Yep, sounds right.

 

You know what I love more than the lemonade Rock Star beverages? That's right... nothing! I so enjoy the lemony goodness with the added bonus of shit ton levels of caffeine (wouldn't it be sweet if "shit ton" was actually a unit of measure and you could look it up inside of a Pee Chee? I think so). I'm so fucking wired at this point (two Rock Stars and instant coffees) that I haven't blinked in 45 minutes.

 

I gave up on my Fight Night: Lights Out video game purchase quest and ordered it off of Amazon. I've waited so long for that fucking game. I'll let the fates determine when I get to play it. And by "fates," I mean the Amazon won't get it to me until Christmas. I have a sense about these things.

 

Too black... too strong.

 

goochout