Oh, Lordy. Communicating with the folks at the unemployment office is like being from Alabama and trying to communicate with that little guy who calls me from India about my Mastercard bill: difficult, to avoid using any expletives. So I'm still waiting to find out if I'm going to get any money for not having a job. Shouldn't one get paid for not working? I should think so. At least then I can get our cable cut back on, therefore providing myself with something to do with all this free time.
As it is I am washing, washing, washing clothes and sheets and socks and towels and the cat and my armpits and the dishes and my car and the bills and anything else that repulses me.
Kane and Jude stayed with us this weekend and they are just as smart-assed as usual. So at least their mom and step-dad haven't managed to FUCK that up yet.
In other news, my kid is an even bigger smart-ass than his brothers. It's like God said, "Okay, let's, just for fun, take all the smart-ass Kane and Jude got, and all the smart-ass Jason and Buffy got, and smush it together, give it blonde hair and a fucking cute smile and see what happens."
What happens is I almost die, every day, either from the cute overload that occurs in my house every single day or from the gouging of my eyes with screwdrivers after Reed gleefully shouts "WHAT THE HELL? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?"
And, really, where the FUCK is he getting all this awful language?