So y'all remember Greg, right? (Wow, that's the first and last time I'm using "y'all." British girls cannot get away with it.) He's the neighbor who regularly plays Gloria Estefan at 4am and who once got some girl so drunk that she wandered naked into our apartment one morning. Remember him?
It's no secret that if my house was burning down and I had to rescue one thing from the flaming wreckage, I'd be hard-pressed to choose between my hot pink Kitchenaid mixer and my shiny white iBook. (Uh, sorry Sean. Sorry, cats. I sort of assumed you'd all be able to tie some sheets together or something. We're only on the second floor.)
Yesterday afternoon, my brother Tom walked to Malaysia. I'm not using "walked to Malaysia" as a euphemism for anything, and it's not some hip new street lingo that the kids are all using. I mean he actually walked to Malaysia. From Singapore. For the evening.
So! My goodness! Hasn't it been a long time since I last posted something! Were you getting terribly sick of reading all that schmaltzy stuff and crying inappropriately and giggling covertly about Sean's ill-advised facial hair in the last photo? (I'm not sure what was going on there either; it was a Wacky California thing, I think. A brief one, thankfully.)
Don't worry, I have enough Valium. (Trust me, I ALWAYS have enough Valium.) Which is excellent, seeing as I've been having a series of low-grade panic attacks since midnight last night, some of which have only involved butterflies in the tummy and some of which have involved hyperventilating in my car while driving to work.
My most sincere apologies to Wal-Mart. I've maintained for many years that it is quite possibly the Unhappiest Place On Earth and yet today I discovered how wrong I've been. I'm sorry, Wal-Mart, but your crown and your sash have been unceremoniously removed and passed along. Because the Unhappiest Place On Earth is, in fact, Toys R' Us. On a Sunday afternoon. Right before Christmas.