Why TLC Is Good For You

I watched some show on TLC the other night about extreme (read that as above 50) cougar (read that as horny) gals (read that as well, gals, I guess) that like to date or sleep with (molest) decades younger men. One of them got handfasted, which at first I thought was going to be a handjob, so I kept one eye on the t.v. and quickly made sure no one else was in the room. Oh shut up. You would have too, prissy.

I later found out that it’s an ancient marriage ritual from before they had marriage as we know it. As far as I can discern, some lady waves a shiv around, then ties your hand to your loved ones hand (against your will?) so you can never fucking get away. The knife part is to frighten you, because she’ll cut you if you even think about untying that knot. Really, it’s beautifully terrifying, like a real wedding is, though I think the wedding meal consists of leaves, dead grass and lake water and there’s likely some sort of bestiality involved, but it was still touching.

When he told his parents he’d married his love, who was older than his mother, the shit pretty much hit the fan. I completely see his mother’s point, as I think if my baby brought some heavily mileaged old trollop home, I’d play “let’s see who can accidentally get tripped down the stairs and land in a broken bloody heap” with her, which I’d win, of course. And even though my eyes melted a few times during the show, I learned something. I learned that no matter who you are or how fucked up you believe yourself to be, TLC finds people to put on television that make you look normal.

Watch away, my friends.

Rules of Life – Part One

Do we need to have this conversation? Really? Again? Well, alright. Here goes.

Mama Leanne’s Life Rules – Version 1,137

No 1.

One of, if not The stupidest rules I’ve ever heard is “Don’t go to bed angry.” What bollocky bullshit! Anyone in a long-term relationship or marriage has had the Stupid Fight that without warning spirals out of control into something ridiculous, inane and hurtful. We get emotional and each of us in our own way goes for the jugular.

Your toenails are like Eagle Talons! You fucking know you are leaving scars on my ankles EVERY night! It’s deliberate, I know it!

Oh yeah? Well my mom is a better COOK than you!

Gasp! Hurt tears. Plotting of untimely death of spouse…

Here’s my rule. Leave the fight. Go have a bath, hide in the office, take a walk, whatever, but Leave it. Let it lie. Sleep on it. Sleep is the great cure for nonsensical bullshit.

Note: The bed is also a great spot for passive/aggressive release. If you are still pissed off, you can steal covers, fart repeatedly and if you are in a slaughtering, mischievous mood, you may also place your obese feline friend ever so carefully across your partner’s throat. All of these work well to defuse anger. I’ve heard.

No 2.

If I work with you but barely know you otherwise, DO NOT tell me your problems. First, I probably don’t give a rat’s ass beyond the level of concern that I would give to a kleenex I just blew my nose into and second, it’s WORK, not free therapy. I don’t need to hear how your husband is an asshole, your kids are dildos and you have a hemorrhoid the size of a goat! Find a friend, get some help but as a rule, leave your fucking co-workers alone! It’s WORK! That’s why they call it that. ( And if I continue to feel your hot breath on my mid-back as you sneak up behind me to spew your dullard view of life, I will start walking around with my elbows out. You are short and if I turn fast, you’re gonna get it in the throat. Accidentally, of course.)

No. 3

There is absolutely no call ever to belch in public. Ever. There are no exceptions to this. Unless you are in a Burp Off, at which point you may be a semi-professional belcher and I might like to hear that. But otherwise, no. Just no. Same goes for a public crotch scratch. Don’t do that. (Why is your crotch so itchy anyway??? For the love of god, you’ve been going at that thing non-stop for like a minute!  I think you may need to see a doctor, Lady.) *moving back from the scratcher several feet.*


This rule goes well with No.3.

If you are going to offend someone, do it well and out loud. No point in being all namby-pamby. *shakes head at self, calls self a silly twat, wonders why self is referring to self as self, thinks self may have finally cracked up, possibly due to the overnight fart and cat smother fight self and husband had.*

No. 5

This may be the most important rule of all:

Never, never, ever, EVER go to an inexperienced waxer. Never, ever, ever. *wandering around with a bow-legged cant and a small bag of frozen peas on what is Formerly Known As The Black Hole, now known as %&*@!#&@%, singing ‘Purple Rain’ softly*

That’s it for now. If you need more, let me know. I can likely save the world with this blog. Probably.

Disclaimer: All resemblance to persons living, dead or zombified, and any similarities to any circumstances that you may think you’ve been in are purely coincidental. Probably. Except that crotch scratching one. That was totally you. Seriously, go see a doctor. Now.

I’m Bored and Sad So Let’s Play (Maybe NSFW or Grandmas)

I was on twitter the other day. Found my friend, Detrimental Beauty. She is prolific, kind of cranky and I’m certain her beauty is not a detriment. But her mouth could be, which is why I love her madly.

This is verbatim.

Db: well aren’t you a friendly fuck

Me: Is that like a fuck that chit chats during the whole thing? Waving and high-fiving? S’plain…

DB: no way-I like where your head is at so I’m going to let you keep running with it…

Okay then…

Me: It can’t be worse than a crazy fuck. Busy talking to the voices in their head while doing the deed. So confusing.

DB: you amaze me.

(Thank you. I amaze myself sometimes. Like now, for instance, by writing this out on my blog for the world to see.)

Me: Or a self-centered fuck. Duct tapes a mirror to your head so they can see themselves!

BD: hahahahahaha… Going to be thinking about that later. (I’m thinking Mr. Beauty is in for a surprise.)

Me: Cheap fuck. Tries to get your wallet while banging.

DB: love you. wish we were neighbors.

Hear that? Even she wants in my bunker! (That is not a vaginal euphemism. It’s my zombie bunker. Which is not even real. Yet.) (On second thought, zombie bunker sounds like a good name for my hoo-hoo-dilly. In an “it’s come back from the dead!” sort of way.)(And it’s not dead. Just kind of sleepy.)

Me: I think I’m out now. Will let you know if I get anymore.

3 seconds later…

Me: Dumb fuck. Gets lost in the middle of the act. Leaves the room, forgets whats going on.

Me: Funny fuck. Tells jokes, makes balloon animals and weird accents.

Me: I am really out now. But I just described my hubby and my sex life in detail. Not saying who does which!

Db: *whispers* i think i know.

This shit just writes itself.

You folks got anymore? Now remember, I used the word but kept it clean(ish).

Comments open. Let fly, my Ducks.

(And go click on my blogroll to Beauty’s site. She’s crafty, gorgeous and fun.)


I’ve been having some issues as of late. For the past month and a half, my bowels have become irritable. I’m not sure what I’ve done to piss them off so. I guess they just think I’m a bitch and have decided to wreck my life.

Oh my. Have they! I’m exhausted, riding the edge of dehydration. I can’t think well as my intellect has been blunted by the lack of nutrition, my home skills have waned (putting it politely. This house is a half step from condemned.) and my social skills have dulled as I can’t leave my house to talk to anyone.

You now those nice adverts for incontinence underwear? My sarcastic (assholish) husband has been pointing them out to me.

“See that? You can’t even tell if they’re FULL! They look just like your panties! Maybe a little sexier.” It’s comments like this that put the shovel in my hand.

My friends have been sort of half supportive. I believe the comment I heard a few times was “We have a toilet, you know.”

That’s dear of them, but there are certain things I try not to share with any of my fellow-men and women if I can avoid  it. I actually left health care because I was fed up with other people’s shit. I’m one of those women that gets angry when I walk into a rank washroom. I do not believe in public defecation. If you are over the age of 10, you should be able to make it til you’re home.

I went to the Doc. When I told him what was going on and for how long, he gave me one of those looks. The quiet “You waited how long? You silly bitch.” See, the problem is I worked in the hospital too long. I live by the ‘If it’s not falling off, spurting blood, and if you can’t see the bone, you’re all good’ rule. Fluids and Tylenol, you’re golden, now fuck off! There is a reason I’m not a nurse now. You’re welcome.

To that end I am being tested. The likely culprits? A bacterial infection or parasites. Stop for a second. Parasites. Oh…

I’m betting on it. I’m one of those organic, raw food eating dumbasses. (Can you smell the patchouli? Would you like a glass of bong water?) Alright, I’m far from a hippie, but I just like good, real food. But with that comes this risk. Whatever. I’ve decided to name my parasites, get to know them. There is Pamela, Percy, Paul, Peter, Petunia, Poppy, Poopsy, Poopsy, Poopsy (those are the triplets)…

By my reason, If I get to know them, I may be able to coax them out. My hubby has offered to hold a sandwich by my backdoor to tempt them. (Yes. Digging a shallow grave as we speak.)

The fun part? I get to have a colonoscopy! Yay! Whee! Balloons and confetti!

So if you are having a bad day, take comfort in the fact that soon I will have five feet of tubing with a camera on the end shoved up my ass into my gut to take a look around. See what the parasites have done to the old place. I just hope he doesn’t have to shove a lamp up there first to light the way.


Boobs and Birthdays

I turned 43 last week. Forty three. Fortythree. fortythree.furtytree.forryhree.

You know, if you say it enough times, it stops making sense.

I don’t particularly care about my age. It’s one year closer to death. Big deal.

I have a few wrinkles, more grey hair than I ever did. So what? I’ve earned every one of them. I’m all for passing the beauty torch on to the younglings that can handle the pressure. I did my turn.

But my boobs! My god, my boobs.

Now, I’ve never been a well endowed girl, and as I was a tomboy, they just got in the way. Alas, I’ve gained some weight in the past couple of years. Consequently, I’ve developed what my mother delicately refers to as a “rack”. And those things are just a pain in the ass.

Here’s my issue. Every birthday, I swear they drop an inch. It’s like they hate getting older and are moving south. Like retirees. Except south is towards my belt.


Last year at christmas, my mom and I were cuddled on the couch. She’s a rubber. You know the ones? They can’t just sit, they have to rub some part of you until the skin wears away and there is a bloody gaping hole where they’ve left the mark of their affection. The dogs like it. I don’t.

So she’s rubbing my arm, and I told her to stop. She asked me why. I said, “Mom, you’re kind of rubbing my nipple”. She jolted, howled with laughter and said “Jesus! Why is it by your elbow?”

Oh mom. I wish I knew.

A few weeks before christmas, our lovely neighbours called us at about 6 p.m. and said “We’re in our pajamas. And drinking. Come for pajama drinks.” Excuse me, but how badass is it to have folks in your life you feel so comfortable with that you can have drinks in your pajamas? PAJAMA DRINKS,PEOPLE!!!! Actually, it sounds a wee bit kinky, but these weren’t our orgy neighbours so we felt safe.

About half way through the evening, my friend Dee gave me a friendly stomach tickle. (Wait. This does sound kinky.) Anyway, it was one of those mom-love-ya grabs us mommies do, but sadly I had to tell her that what she’d thought was my side was actually my boob. I flustered the poor woman for a bit until I explained that now when I sit down, the girls tend to hover oh so gently to rest on my lap. An honest mistake.


I just don’t know why they’ve decided to become long and tubular. I thought that only happened to National Geographic tribal naked women. I’ve been so misled.

I’m already losing my navel behind them. “Where’s my navel? Oh wait, it’s right here, behind my boob. Duh.” What’s next, tucking them into my socks?

I’ve thought about getting them pierced. Not for any reason other than to slip a chain through one, lace around my neck and attach it to the other piercing. Kind of like a poor mans breast lift.  Might work.

But this is my advice to all the younglings. Don’t pierce your boobs! Don’t ever add weight to something thats going to sag naturally anyway.

As for me. It might just be time to buy a really good bra I can wear all the time. Do they come in tubular sizes?

Cat Laws

This is the cat.

Sorry, I misspoke. It’s The cat. The only one worth anything. The top cat. The cattest cat.

If it’s not obvious yet, it’s him demanding I write this post. Hard to believe, I know. But you’ve never met him.

He has been alternately sleeping on my lap top, jumping on my tower, and cozying up to the Mac. When those subtle hints to “write about the cat” have failed, he’s taken to sharpening his claws on my bed and sleeping across my throat.

He weighs 18 pounds. He is trying to kill me.

Without further ado,

Cat Laws (in no particular order):

1. If someone accidentally steps on your foot, tail, testicles, etc, you must SCREAM BLOODY MURDER!!! Seriously, yowl as loud and blood curdlingly (is that a word?) as you possibly can so that someone, anyone, will hear you for 2 miles around and know that some human is offending your body and it must stop! If that fails, hiss and bite.

2. If you are a cat and hear another cat in your household yell out in pain, quickly run over to the possibly deathly injured cat and try to beat the shit out of it. First, it keeps the other cat that is bringing its death out of ‘your’ cat area, and it may impress the human that feeds you, because everyone likes a brave cat.

46. If it rains, go up on the roof of the garage. Sit there. Look pissed off. Alternately, if the rain freezes on the roof of the garage, slide around while trying to get down. It will entertain the humans.

23. If your human leaves laundry on the floor, piss on it. Humans don’t need to be so slovenly.

4. Pretend you don’t understand the words “Get down!”.

13. When your human cleans your litter IMMEDIATELY run to the box and have a huge dump. Just because.

62. Get chatty in the middle of the night. If your human rolls over, take it as a sign they want to talk. Meow lots.

31. If the human leaves the dishwasher door open, get inside to remind them they left it open. Same goes for dryers, cupboards, closets, cars, etc. Humans are stupid.

89. When your human goes to change the bedding, release your inner kitten and fling your body crazily around the bed as the sheets are fluttering down. That’s just fun.

53. Go out and kill something. Eat part of it. Leave the legs and hind end at the front door.

80. When the christmas tree goes up, watch casually from a distance. Pretend you don’t care. When your human gives you the warning glance,  lick your neuter stumps. As soon as they are out for more than an hour, get NINJA on that sumbitch. Again, that’s just a good time.

27. When it’s catnip time, get shitfaced. Then get miserable. Pick a fight with any other cat or dog in the house. Find a perch and sleep it off.

11. If you are not getting enough attention, wait until the house is dark, and as your human fumble walks to go get a drink or a snack, get right between its legs and trip it.

38. Once in a blue moon, climb the bookcase and sit on the top quietly. Don’t move. Just stare. This move frightens the humans.

72. If you slip off of something, lick yourself nonchalantly. Pretend that you meant to fall.

90. Love the dog. Play with it. Then ignore it. And when it comes close to say hello, reach out and whack it really hard. Dogs need to learn their fucking place.

17. When you have to vomit, make this noise: GLOUWGLOUWGLOUWGLOUW! If no one comes, retch 3 times then puke. Make sure to do that right on the nearest carpet. Don’t feel guilty. You gave notice.

Final Law. Love the female and the boy violently. So much that you will let them degrade you by decorating you for christmas.

And remember, no matter which side of the door you are on, it will always be the wrong side.

Dreams, Diet and The Eye Shat

Wow. It’s quiet in here…

Which is odd, as I just woke up from a dream in which the Dalai Lama actually asked me to leave his four star resort/meditation monastery because I could not stop talking during meditation. In my dream it was a terrible misunderstanding, as we were in the midst of a releasing excercise and one of those old highschool mama’s boys (you know the ones) burst into tears because he said I was standing on the fake grave he’d imagined for his mother, who hadn’t died yet. I tried to explain that it was unintentional, but mammas boy wouldn’t listen to reason. I also tried to explain that it was a fake invisible grave, so how the hell would I know where he put it but the D.L. told me I was being disruptive and asked me to go. He was very nice about it. But still. I then went to find hubby to get him to pack up, and as it turns out, he had found a new friend and was in the attached sports bar watching the hockey game. I tell you, that is some fancy Buddhist retreat. I should really be the business manager for the Buddhists. Ideas, my friend, ideas.

So in the past while, I’ve been trying to lose some weight. It’s not that I’m big, but if I don’t change my habits now, this winter I’ll be giving Santa a run for his money. As I’ve always burned most of what I’ve eaten, this whole weight gain and loss thing is a flipping mystery to me. I really feel for people who struggle with this their whole lives. But I’ve started eating way too much. To combat this, I am eating a lot of Middle Eastern food, things like couscous, dal, and humus. Yes, my friends, I reek of garlic and onion! Can you smell me over there? My hubby keeps asking if I have any gum. And I keep trying to neck with him. S’fun.

I’ve also started taking a fiber supplement that its supposed to fill you up. It also cleans out every dark, forgotten corner of your bowel, which is okay, because I’m a bit of a neat freak. But it has an unfortunate side effect of producing extremely loud gas. With every step you take. While it is not malodorous, it is going to be a bit inconvenient. Today, in turn, I have made the small dog bark, the big dog look at me and ask “Is that gunfire?”, and I also managed to make the cat stop his frantic licking of his non-existent balls (they’ve been gone 3 years! Give it up, already!), and with his tongue still hanging out, he looked at me and said “Good God, Woman! Was that you?” I generally don’t enjoy flatulence, and I try to avoid it at all costs. But this… this could be fun! It’s like having my own personal stock of chinese firecrackers up my ass! I think I’ll try to punctuate everything I say to my family with a nice loud bang.

I’ve also had an unwanted guest for about the last month. I have a clogged tear duct that has taken on a life of its own. Honestly, this thing has started to grow arms and even a mouth. It’s been talking to me in the middle of the night. “Hey. How you doing?” “Okay. Could you leave now?” “Nooooo. I like it here. Shhhh. Go back to sleep. Dream of the Dalai Lama. Shhhhh… Lullaby and good nite…”Oddly enough, it sounds an awful lot like William Shatner. While I love the Shat and his velvet voice, I think maybe I’ve been listening to his new cd too much. That is courtesy of my dear hubby, who puts it on, giggles and sings/talks right along with it. Obviously, neither of us has a life.

I went to my physician after not being able to get it to go away on my own. “Hmmm…” he said.

“Can I poke at it?”

Umm, no.

I quote directly:”Come on, let me poke at it! Don’t be a baby!”

I let him poke at it. No one calls me a baby! I even held the lighty thingy for him. Would it be okay to tell you that it hurt like a BITCH when he was done. And nothing happened. So with a “Thanks, asshole” on my part, he’s decided to send me to a opthamologist. Tomorrow.  I’m a bit sad to see Eye Shat go, as we’ve built a bit of a relationship. But I’d like to be able to wear mascara again at Christmas.

Hubby asked me how I’d feel if I had to wear an eye patch. I told him I would then get to pretend I was a pirate. And I would talk like one all. the. time.

Arrrr, matey. A gassy,windy pirate with my own built-in cannon sounds. I think I have my Halloween costume ready for next year! Squeal!

Wish me luck.

The Husband Doesn’t Believe

You’ll be happy to know that stinky wife week has ended. Well, you won’t, but my family is. Although the dogs paid me much more attention than usual.

As I’ve said in my previous post The End Is Nigh, it is practice for the apocalypse. The hair I let grow on my legs is for camouflage (I figure I can hide like a Sasquatch. Or a Wookie. Lets say Wookie, because Wookies are real!) but I do shave when it gets to the point that if I move quickly, I smell burning hair. This is all stuff that my husband can’t understand.

“What’s with the armpit hair?”

“I’m pretending.”

“What in the fuck are you pretending? That you are a hairy man?”

I don’t tell him a Wookie.

“I’m pretending I’m a French girl. Or Italian. Spanish. I don’t know. Some European country where it’s considered sexy not to shave.”

“Well maybe you should be pretending to be a not hairy Canadian and get a razor. And a bar of soap.”

That man has no sense of adventure.

Last spring I was alone here in the country. Son was at school. All peace and quiet. I looked out at my neighbour’s and saw three men in orange vests moving slowly across his property. They had helmets and walkie talkies, and some sort of weird machine that I thought was a Geiger counter. I was convinced aliens had crashed in his yard.

I phoned my husband and spoke in a terrified whisper.

“There are guys all over the place! They’re looking for aliens! I think it’s the government! You’d better get home! They might kill me because I know too much!”

To which my hero replied: “Did you put a bra on this morning?”

Ummm, what?

I’m not sure how that would have saved my life. Perhaps he thought if I was buxom and pert, they may let me survive.

I have pulled him out of bed to look at something in the sky that I was sure was a UFO. That was headed for our house. To get me.

“C’mon! Just look at it! What d’ya think it is?”

“A plane. Listen. Hear It? Are you even sober? I’m going back to bed, weirdo.”

He doesn’t believe. It’s all right. He indulges my whimsy and I think it gives him something to talk about at work.

The upside? When my emergency preparedness funkiness ends, he thinks something really exciting and special is happening.

“WOW! You look great! Is it our anniversary? Did I miss it?”

No, baby. This is just for you.

(And because my pit hair was actually starting to tangle. He doesn’t need to know that.)

Coping Skills From The Mentally Ill

Big breaths.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Big breaths.

I have *insert applause here* officially become a non smoker. I’m aware some of you will think that’s no big deal, but if you have ever smoked, you’ll know it is.

I have eagerly and happily tried most illicit substances in my life. Not one caught me. Thank God. But this, this has been my bane.

Having worked in mental health for years, and having studied the psychological and neurological machinations of the brain, I decided to use the non smoking pill. It inhibits reception of nicotine and massages your addiction center or something, I don’t know. It seems to have worked. My brain is nic free. All I have left are habitual and stress induced cravings. For those, substitutions are required. I have no fingernails left, and I have eaten everything in the house. The dogs are beginning to look at me warily. I think they are nervous of being devoured in the frenzy. And I’m trying to be careful of my mood and reactions. Because yelling cheerfully at the neighbour,”Hey! Good Morning! Go fuck yourself!” is not really how I want to approach the world.

Then I remembered. Hubby and I watched a documentary on Bellevue Psych hospital in New York a couple of years ago. (We watch a lot of docs. We’re boring old weirdos.) Now as I’ve said, I worked with psych patients. It was fun for a while, but even crazy can get boring. I’m not the only worker who got jaded. “Oh, he poked his own eye out during a hallucination? Yawwwnnn.” (Don’t judge! You never worked there.) Consequently, I like my crazy good and crazy. You think you got something new for me? Bring it. (And this is why I no longer work in that field.)  But in this doc there was one guy who stood out from the others because of what I believe was his original ‘take’ on the crazy.

Every day at a certain time, he would start calmly yelling:

I HATE THIS PLACE! NOTHING WORKS HERE! THE MEDICATIONS DON’T WORK! I’VE BEEN HERE FOR 7 YEARS! I HATE THIS PLACE! NOTHING WORKS HERE! THE MEDICATIONS DON’T WORK! And so on. For about 40 minutes. They’d put him in a little room so as not to disrupt the other patients and let him go. He’d stop, clean his glasses, take a breath and be fine for the rest of the day. I. Fucking. Love. This. Man.

He has given me my “not smoking, I’m stressed about nothing, please slap some sense into me before I wax your balls in a surprise attack” mantra.

When I feel the slip, I look at hubby and start. He nods and redirects the boy. And I feel all better.

I’m happy to be a ‘normal’ person again. A non smoker. The world looks a little brighter. It’s probably because it’s not all hazy with smoke, but whatever.

If you hear yelling, you’ll know what it is.


I’ll be back in about 40 minutes. (Which is almost the same length of time it takes to plan a surprise ball wax attack. Just FYI.)

Big breaths.

In Vain

I should be editing my about page because it’s pretty fucking lacking (I don’t know what to say about myself. *Human, Not Satan, Mostly not an asshole, but don’t cross me*? Seriously, suggestions welcome.)

I hold no particular religious affiliation but I do know that using Jesus Christ as my son’s name is just wrong.  As in “Jesus Christ, would you go to bed? Jesus Christ, who told you the cat could go in the dishwasher? Jesus Christ, the car trunk is not a good hiding place! Jesus Christ, put down that lighter!”

I know, I am awful.

I swear way too goddamn much. It’s not charming, it’s gauche. It makes me sound like a fucking redneck. I really need to do better. Fuck. Shit. Sorry.

I tried out a new face cream. Very pleasant older lady hooked me up. I saw her a week later and she asked how I liked it. I said,” I fucking love it! Look at this fucking wrinkle here, it’s almost fucking gone! I look like I’m fucking 18!” She looked like I’d slapped her, and threatened to kick her in the box. She said, “Oh. Good. Excuse me.” Walked away.


Here’s the thing. I am a clean-cut, middle class wife/motherfucker, shit, sorry, I meant mother. I drive a good car, take care of myself, and I also have very white teeth and a surprisingly good ass. I am not supposed to sound like I do. But I can’t help it.

I see these nice pretty ladies of about my age and in conversation, they say something like ‘oh darn it, or shoot’.( And I think ” Oh for fucksake, just say damn it. Or cunt, just try saying cunt! Own that word, bitch!)

See what I mean? It’s my head. My brain is foul-mouthed. A real problem. Fuckshit. Again, sorry.

I am actually a very nice person who mostly wouldn’t hurt a fly. And I am not anti-christian, or the anti christ (although I would like to have a beer with him, just to see what he has to say. And Jesus. I think he’d be a fun drunk!).

I promise to try to do better. Not here though. This is my blog, and if you can’t take it, then fuck off! Again, sorry. I actually really like you here.

I’ll try. And I promise not take the lord’s name in vain anymore. Fuckshit.