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

We had a wintery storm here which means we had some wind and it got below 50 degrees and my internet has been sporadic at best. I don’t know if that’s what caused it, I’m not an internet scientist. All I know is that I don’t want to be typing shit and then lose connection so I’ll keep this short. Also, this gin isn’t going to drink itself.

Here’s a video of Bobo to keep y’all from being too sad and suicidal.

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So I’m walking Bobo along a road that fronted some woods the other day and suddenly he stopped and stared at something hanging in a tree.

Nah, that wasn’t it.

I was all “What the fuck is that?”

Then I looked further back into the woods.

Something was behind a tree. “What the fuck is that?” I thought.

Bobo wanted to go investigate. I followed.

“What the fuck is that?” I said to Bobo.

He didn’t know.

“Shit, I bet we found a hobo camp” I said. “We best leave before they return, I don’t have my shotgun.”

Then I logged the location into my GPS for a future hunting expedition.

Good boy, Bobo.

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Why yes, this is a meal. There's a protein, a starch, and a vegetable. And yes, I do eat like I'm twelve.

Know what pisses me off? We can put a man on the goddamn moon but we can’t make a frozen cheese stick that doesn’t leak its cheese out of its breading when baked. I mean, c’mon, I’m no cheese stick scientist but what the fuck? How hard can it be? And the really bad part is no matter how much or what I use to grease the foil, and I have to use foil ’cause I don’t have a dishwasher or decent sized sink, the cheese sticks to it and I end up peeling it off when it’s cooled enough to touch and the foil peels off with it. AND no matter how hard I try to get the foil off of that cheese there’s always some left and I’m so hungry I just say “fuck it” and eat it anyway. And you know what they say about that- “A second on the lips, a lifetime lodged in your stomach and intestinal lining.” I think I’ve ingested enough aluminum foil in the past few months that I’ll never make it through the metal detector at the airport. Fuck.

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People have started badgering the shit out of me on Facebook about my lack of posting on here. They’re all like “Damn, you can post on Facebook, but you can’t write on your blog?!” and “You can watch TV but you can’t post on your blog?!” and “Wow Laura, you’re a fantastic writer with such a grip on grammar and sentence structure- when will you be writing again?” Okay, I made that last one up. Stop laughing. Anyway, I’ve decided to take up blogging again to stop the constant nagging and begging and to appease my fans. All three of you. I’ve also decided I would curse more. No more holding back. I know.

And because dreams are bullshit and no one gives a flying fuck what you dream about, my first return entry will be about the dream I had last night.

I was in prison and I was hanging out with a group of lesbians because, you know, protection, and I was saying “I don’t even know what I’m in here for!” to one of them, who by the way was a friend of mine I knew years ago and who wasn’t a lesbian in real life but in my dream she was the head of the prison lesbians. She said “You carried a bottle of beer off post.” And then I remembered I had been partying on Fort Jackson and left with a beer and got arrested and then sent to a federal prison for three months. I said “I can’t believe I went to prison for that!” and one of the other lesbians said “You should have paid off the judge like everyone else does. It only cost fifty dollars.” And I was all “ONLY FIFTY DOLLARS?!” and I reached into a pocket on my prison jumpsuit and pulled out my iPhone to call someone to go bribe the judge. But my iPhone was dead and I didn’t have a power cord and no one else did and I started to cry because prison really sucked. Then the next thing I knew I was on some kind of eight hour furlough and went to a friend’s house to check on my dog Jack. When I got there, by way of a prison bus, I talked to my friend who just had a baby and was keeping Jack in the back yard. I didn’t like the sound of that and when I walked to the back to see Jack I saw that her backyard was actually a swamp and Jack was stuck in a small pit of quicksand. I pulled him out and yelled at her and she called the cops and I was all “Oh fuck, I’ll get years added to my sentence now.” So I tucked Jack under my arm and took off running. After I ran for a while I stopped at a bus stop and waited for a bus. I planned on going to Mexico. I had a bus schedule in my hand and I was thinking “I don’t even know what fucking city I’m in, how the hell am I going to make it to Mexico?” and I debated about turning myself and Jack in. Then I woke up.

You know, I always tell J my dreams, in detail because I like that glaze that comes over his eyes and I always end it with “What do you think that means?” and he always, always replies “That you’re bat-shit crazy.” He’s such a kidder that one.

Now here’s a picture of what Jack would look like living in Mexico. He’s the only non-Chihuahua I know of that can pull this look off.

"Donde trata mi perro, hijos de puta?"

According to Google’s translator that means “Where’s my dog treats, motherfuckers?” I guess that’s right, I don’t know. I’m not an international cursing scientist, though I really should be.

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