Parties.
There’s nothing like getting hit on by a bunch of undesirable people to remind you how lonely you really are.
Mom’s Cooking is the Bomb.
We’re going to this semi-family-reunion thing over Memorial Day weekend with my dad’s family in California. And my mother has spent the last three weeks baking fifteen banana breads and about ten double batches of biscotti for this reunion. The worst part is that she’s not done yet.
Oh, and she’s making all of this for about fifteen people.
Now you know why I was fat as a kid.
I feel sorry for the TSA Agent that unzips the suitcase full of thirty suspicious-looking objects wrapped in tin foil.
Actually, no I don’t.
Fuck the TSA.
Side note: Mom’s cooking really isn’t the bomb. It’s actually kind of gross. It’s okay, though. I remind her all the time.
the moral of the story is never have feelings for anybody ever
(via fuckyeahloldemort)
My sister left a little note for me on my bathroom mirror.
At least everything’s spelled correctly this time.
Home Sweet Home.
When most people leave home, their mothers instruct them to watch out for their things so they don’t get stolen.
As for me, the first thing I heard when I got home for the summer was to keep my room locked and avoid carrying cash. Apparently my sister’s kleptomania has reached new lows. This should make for a great three months.
In other news, my brothers and I have started a betting pool for how long until she ends up in jail.
