Posts by Lessa:
SOOOOOOOOOOB!
Do you know where my son is right now? Do you? DO YOU? He’s at that thingy, that… that… FRESHMAN orientation. At the HIGH SCHOOL! Then one I mentioned over here! The one with the whole “parents need not attend” on the bottom. Complete with a SMILEY FACE. Like THIS: 🙂 !!!
And now. RIGHT NOW. My son, my firstborn – the one who is taller then me my BAYBEE, is here:
At the HIGH SCHOOL. For Freshman Orientation. With other HIGH SCHOOLERS! With High School GIRLS. He even brushed his hair. And put on a belt. And his nice new shoes. And washed his hands.
HE BRUSHED HIS TEETH, PEOPLE!
*Sniff* I’m handling it well. Really. *SOB* Honest.
ETA: Yeah – I called that!
Me: “So, what cha do? What was it like? See any friends?”
The boy: “nuthin. whatever. I guess.”
Later, it was discovered through random bits of conversation that he DID see several of his friends, that S cut his hair, that He and Ch (aka – The Girl He’s Loved Since Birth) and J (the cutie Science project partner) made sure to get lockers right next to each other. So – if he has to be in the “pool hall” (the hallway right by the swimming pool entrance) and smell Chlorine all the time, at least he does it surrounded by the two cutest girls in his grade.
Heh.
I’m so doomed.
Hello True Believers!
Dear ‘Perfect’ Client.
MACS ARE NOT GODS! Just because you are too lazy to add an extension of .jpg to your bloody images and your mac knows this and views them anyway does not make MY COMPUTER INCOMPETANT, and by extension, neither does it make me an idiot. SLOW DOWN and fucking LISTEN to what I’m SAYING. STOP […]
Someday
I’m angry. Along the edges, I know why, and I suppose it’s understandable, but being who I am I just keep on going, but really, honestly, deep down? I’m furious. Some people have gotten little tastes of it about stupid inconsequential things, and some of them have even decided to quit speaking to me. Can’t […]
I call it…
When I checked stats today (I was bored!) and saw this: forced to smell my sweaty stinky socks I simply couldn’t resist picking on the sleeping boy and his giant stinky feet. With the Girl’s help, naturally. I call it.. Death, by Stanky Boy Feet. (Just IMAGINE the hell that is his SOCKS!)
