A Memo to the Complaint Department

Ok. Now I'm tired of all this work. Seriously. I had my University Facilitator suggest that I practice my lesson plans on my kids, and I had to tell her, "You know, I'm pretty sure that involves us being in the same place. That probably won't work."

Enterprise™ is going to have to pry its rental car out of my cold, dead hands.

I forgot to bring milk to work today, and am having to use that powdered shit crap (Seriously, that's what it is- dogshit that has turned white, which has been powdered) in my coffee. Meh.

I didn't take a shower this morning, have a bobby pin in my bangs, and wore my sweater to work inside out. Lovely.

I've got this one hair that grows from my chin, and I hate it when I notice it when I'm not around tweezers. My grandmother and my mother have the same hair, on the same side. That, and being born on Valentine's Day (after my mom went into labor on Friday the thirteenth) with two teeth, makes me a witch, some would say. Or, maybe they said bitch. Either way, I need some tweezers.

People should space having children about fifteen years apart, so they will know what they're getting themselves into.

No one maintains our Netflix, and so we now have "The Sex in the City" movie (which sounds like it could be a cool porno- but, alas) and the first season of "The Powerpuff Girls" to watch. Woot. Not.

I had a dream in which my kids and I were being chased in cars, kinda from a distance, as was Mr. Bee, though we were separated, and then I showed up in this kind of rural place where there was a place to hide underground. It was such a good place to hide that I, who even knew about it, didn't notice it, but was glad to find Mr. Bee there when my kids and I were ushered into it. There were many people down there at first, but, eventually, everyone left but me and I was down there all alone when the dream ended.

I made my first seating chart, which I will implement for the new six weeks, on Monday. I'm not really complaining about doing this one, but rather the massive responsibility it is. How teenagers treat each other scars them for life, I know.

I can't think of this one.

My bedroom is a disgusting mess. I'm not complaining about that part. I'm complaining about the fact that I want to clean it and can't if I'm never home. I know Martha Stewart is behind this. I just know it.

Well, goodbye interwebstubenet. Have a Saturday.