No, I do not want to see your audition for Garfield Capades. I do believe you can do a triple sowcow, but I don’t want to see it now. You just might be the next fuzzy, yellow, obese Sasha Cohen, but you are interfering with a highly sensitive decompression process known as “blogging so nobody gets hurt.”
Perhaps you don’t realize I’m still radioactive as a result of the double-tantrum-Chernobyl we called “bedtime” tonight, but if you don’t stop knocking over my screen with your girth you will soon become eternally the Garfield Capades poster cat—meaning an inanimate one-dimensional version of yourself.
If I concede to watch you model your new ice-dancing-itard will you lay off the heavy breathing? Yes, you can sit next to me. Just don’t interfere with my work. Was that a scoff? Yes, work.
You’re reading over my shoulder again aren’t you. Of course I am open to constructive criticism. No, ice-dancing-itard is not a real word. Your point? If I pet you for a minute, will you leave me alone? Well, no, if you must know, I do not no how to end this. That's not true. I am not afraid to ask for help.
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Touché.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
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