Everyone needs a fleet of flying monkeys to rip the stuffing out of the annoying people in their lives
— Laura

Me: “My friend Patty wants me to go with her to a quilters club meeting tomorrow.”

J: “You should go.”

Me: “Yeah, well, I haven’t quilted in years. And what if it’s like a quilting cult!”

J: “It won’t be a cult, Laura.”

Me: “Hmm, maybe they’ll teach me their secret quilting handshake.”

J: “What?”

Me: “Their secret handshake. It’s probably two cramped claws trying to grip.” *demonstrates* “Hey, when I walk in I should pick the toughest looking one and go punch her in the face.”

J: ”Laura, it’s a quilters meeting, not prison!”

Me: “Oh yeah. Then I probably won’t go.”

J: “God you’re weird.”

 

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Actually he said "It's cold as fuck here in the mornings." I don't know where he's picked that kind of language up from.

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I made the mistake of sharing a Netflix account with J. Well okay, not really “share”, but more like “know his password.” And because there’s no privacy setting for a moocher he gets to see my viewing history. And it’s not that I’m really ashamed of my viewing, it’s not like I watch midget porn, because there is no midget porn on Netflix. Believe me, if there was y’all know I’d be proud of watching that shit too. The thing is, I have to listen to him constantly ragging me about the type of shows I watch. You see, I watch mainly horror movies or shows about drug addicts or whores. And sometimes, if I’m really lucky, there might be two or even all three in one show. I call this either a double, because most addicts become whores, or a triple if there is a scary movie with an addict whore. A triple, of course, being like winning the trifecta. So anyway, he becomes all Movie Critic Nazi and is like “Oh my God Laura why do you watch such crap!” And I’m all “Shut the fuck up, ‘Whores’ Glory’ is on!”

What the motherfucker doesn’t realize is you learn shit from these shows. You learn survival skills. You learn what to avoid. You learn about life. Take this scene from the epic 1991 movie ”Whore” that I watched in my youth:

You see, life is that man in the hotdog shirt, always wanting to fuck you up the ass and you just gotta flip it off.

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A few weeks before Christmas I went with J over to his mother’s house to decorate her Christmas tree because she’s getting on in years and I told her earlier that I would. Anyway, I first put the lights on the tree and then started pulling out boxes of ornaments and placing them on. Then I came upon a box that were obviously children’s handmade ornaments. I held the box up to J and he wrinkled his nose and said “Oh, those are ones my brother and I made when we were kids. I don’t know why mom saved them, just put them back. They don’t need to go on the tree.” His mom overheard him from the next room and said she wanted them on the tree, so I opened the box and started pulling them out and placing them on the tree much to J’s chagrin. There were some made of paper, some glittered cones, painted seashells, you know, typical kid stuff. When I got to the bottom of the box though, I started pulling out some pretty horrifying ones made from sticks and yarn that stopped me in my tracks. They looked like these:

Me: “Dude. What. The. Fuck?”

J: “What? They’re ornaments we made at camp.”

Me: “Camp Blair Witch?”

J: “No, smartass. Hmm, we may have made them in Boy Scouts.”

Me: “Troop Blair Witch?”

J: “God, you’re weird.”

I hung them on the tree next to all the Baby Jesus’ and angels I could find. Just. In. Case.

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