Hey faggots...
Joking. You're so sensitive.
The "head production assistant" here at Dakota is named Audrey. She's 19, has a massive rack, and is about as smart as a sheep's asshole. A retarded sheep's asshole. That was addicted to opium. Anyhoward, she just ducked into the story editor's room to ask me for a pen as she was on the phone with someone trying to reach the owner of Dakota (Troy...perhaps I've mentioned him. Moron.). The phone is located around the corner in the kitchen and is "old school', i.e., non-cordless, as to say with chord, as it were. It was stretched to the limit as she was writing down the message with aforementioned pen and proceeded to shoot from her hand and across the hallway. Pretty funny.
Doesn't change the huge rack thing.
1973...the U.S. and Vietnam sign a peace agreement, Roe Vs. Wade goes into the law books, and as for me? Kickin' ass and takin' names, although I couldn't write them down as of yet because I was only 3.
We're 100% moved in now at 2230 Kensington Ave, full-on. My Dad, on the phone with me the first night in the house that I myself will be paying off for 27 more years, commanded me to go in the back yard, crack open a beer, and stare at my house. He then told me to pick up a handful of dirt and say, "MY LAND. MY LAND!!!" After performing this cross-country marionette act, Pops informed me that this is what he did our first night at 2230 Kensington. I assume this was after more than just one beer.
We spent a lot of time at "Auntie Barb's" house beginning now. Barb was a friend of Mom's from teaching days, and she was 1973 personified: The hair, the makeup, the reeking of cigarette smoke and omnipresent martini glass. Good ol' Auntie Barbara. I can almost smell her now. She and my mother had a "code" for calling each other, since she lived about an hour away and this predates call-packages, so calls could sometimes reach - hang onto yer onions - $4!! they'd alternate calls, so if my Mom called Barb last time and wanted to talk, she'd call and hang up after 1 ring, thus indicating to Barb to call her back.
Yes, my Mom is completely out of her mind.
I began preschool this year as well, at St. Michael's church (a through line of boredom in my younger years). My Mom says that I cried the first day that she dropped me off and didn't want her to leave, but by the next day, I was eager as hell to get back. It might have been the juice and cookies. Who knows.
Now, it is time for a bizarre admission from this year. No, I didn't enlist in the Nazi party, nor did I shove an oboe up my nose and tap dance on a flagpole....
I had a dollie.
It was a she.
And she was black.
I can't remember her name (Sambo? Mammy?), but nearly every photo of me from this year, she's cradled in my ever-loving arms. Say it once, say it loud, my doll's black and I'm proud.
Joking. You're so sensitive.
The "head production assistant" here at Dakota is named Audrey. She's 19, has a massive rack, and is about as smart as a sheep's asshole. A retarded sheep's asshole. That was addicted to opium. Anyhoward, she just ducked into the story editor's room to ask me for a pen as she was on the phone with someone trying to reach the owner of Dakota (Troy...perhaps I've mentioned him. Moron.). The phone is located around the corner in the kitchen and is "old school', i.e., non-cordless, as to say with chord, as it were. It was stretched to the limit as she was writing down the message with aforementioned pen and proceeded to shoot from her hand and across the hallway. Pretty funny.
Doesn't change the huge rack thing.
1973...the U.S. and Vietnam sign a peace agreement, Roe Vs. Wade goes into the law books, and as for me? Kickin' ass and takin' names, although I couldn't write them down as of yet because I was only 3.
We're 100% moved in now at 2230 Kensington Ave, full-on. My Dad, on the phone with me the first night in the house that I myself will be paying off for 27 more years, commanded me to go in the back yard, crack open a beer, and stare at my house. He then told me to pick up a handful of dirt and say, "MY LAND. MY LAND!!!" After performing this cross-country marionette act, Pops informed me that this is what he did our first night at 2230 Kensington. I assume this was after more than just one beer.
We spent a lot of time at "Auntie Barb's" house beginning now. Barb was a friend of Mom's from teaching days, and she was 1973 personified: The hair, the makeup, the reeking of cigarette smoke and omnipresent martini glass. Good ol' Auntie Barbara. I can almost smell her now. She and my mother had a "code" for calling each other, since she lived about an hour away and this predates call-packages, so calls could sometimes reach - hang onto yer onions - $4!! they'd alternate calls, so if my Mom called Barb last time and wanted to talk, she'd call and hang up after 1 ring, thus indicating to Barb to call her back.
Yes, my Mom is completely out of her mind.
I began preschool this year as well, at St. Michael's church (a through line of boredom in my younger years). My Mom says that I cried the first day that she dropped me off and didn't want her to leave, but by the next day, I was eager as hell to get back. It might have been the juice and cookies. Who knows.
Now, it is time for a bizarre admission from this year. No, I didn't enlist in the Nazi party, nor did I shove an oboe up my nose and tap dance on a flagpole....
I had a dollie.
It was a she.
And she was black.
I can't remember her name (Sambo? Mammy?), but nearly every photo of me from this year, she's cradled in my ever-loving arms. Say it once, say it loud, my doll's black and I'm proud.
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