The 35th Precinct

After a year of begging, I finally have new, padded armrests. No more risk of tetanus. No more throbbing arms. Of course, now I owe my mother $45, because with the tens of thousands of credit card debt she's holding, if she doesn't get that $45 right goddamn now, the world will collapse. Never mind that her monthly income is three times mine, or that I need to pay the car insurance and for an oil change and a new O2 sensor, or that according to her, I should be spending $25 a week on beer for the red-necked angel across the street who mows my lawn. The same angel she pays $35 a month to mow 13 acres. Oh, and don't forget the $200 I should be squirreling away monthly just because, and the $40 a week I need for gas. Nope. She's got to have that $45 dollars right now because it's my responsibility to pay my debts. You know, like those debts she has on her credit card right now. Never mind that I asked for the armrests when I could afford them. A YEAR AGO.

I'd like to work on Sprache XII before the finale of Hell's Kitchen. It's been a lackluster season, really, except for the episode where Jean Philippe caught a little girl putting naughty words into a speech bubble of the Gordon Ramsay she was drawing.

"Why are you writing those naughty words?"

"He says them." ~girl looks at a frothing Ramsay~

"Oh, dear." JP discreetly confiscates the drawing~ Ha. Bless him, but he looked so discomfited, and he pulled the best prim moue of dismay.

I haven't watched much TV since I got my laptop. I mean to, but I get engrossed in writing and listening to the glories of AOL Radio, and before I know it, my show has been over for two hours and it's one in the morning and my eyeballs feel like flypaper and I haven't peed since lunch.

Well, to it, then.