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The Bang Bang Theories

Moviestar Life

The other morning, DJ (my favorite kitty….ssshhh… don’t tell the others) crawled out from under the covers where he’d been sleeping so cutely all night long…

…and he climbed on top of my uncovered body, squatted down… and shit on my stomach.

Yes, Reader. Let that story soak in. Take a moment.

My Good-Morning-How-Do-You-Do began with a nice big pile of shit directly on my post-surgery-still-has-healing-wounds semi-naked belly.

The weight of him climbing on top of me was just beginning to awaken me, and I looked at him ready for more snuggling and then, as I was scratching is face, the smell wafted. I asked him if he was farting on me….

No. He was not.

And that’s when the screaming began.


Kenny, rolling over, “Huh, what, what’s going on?”


Because not only was I shat upon, but I couldn’t get up because then the shat would fall off of me and I’d have an even bigger and more disgusting mess to clean up, if you can believe that’s even possible.

I officially deserve some sort of an award for Remaining Still in the Face of a Crisis.

Kenny, slowly lumbering to his feet, still half asleep, started the long walk towards the kitchen for the paper towels.

Me: “Are you going all the way to the kitchen??? GET THE PAPER TOWELS FROM THE LAUNDRY ROOM FOR FUCKS SAKE!!” which is directly across from the bedroom.

Twenty bajillion hours later, paper towels arrived and I cleaned myself off, stripped off my pajamas, and jumped into the bath and took a Silkwood shower.

So that was Wednesday, Reader.

Luckily, just last Sunday I began a morning meditation of positivity and channeling your vibration to attract joy and abundance.  Apparently it’s working because I did receive an unexpected abundance.

I’d like to say the week got better after this, but it did not. It has been a true exercise in affirming joy and positivity and gratitude every. single. morning.  It is keeping me challenged.

DJ and I were not on speaking terms for several days.

Last night he came back to the scene of the crime.

He told me he was sleepwalking and in that hypnogogic state of hallucination when The Incident occurred. His words, Reader.

I accepted his explanation and his super soft tummy as his penance.

Forgiveness, Reader. It was just the Universe giving me a lesson in forgiveness, using a literal analogy that sometimes the thing you love the most will just shit all over you, but you have to learn forgiveness if you want to have love’s abundance.

*the last part, well, I’m just trying to make a good story here so I feel better about literally getting shit on before 8:00 a.m. in the morning. Not that any time is a good time for getting shit on, but if I was picking an awful time, the first worst time would be in the middle of the night, when you’re in a super-deep sleep and may not even know you’ve been shit on and roll around in it, and the second worst time to get shit on would be right as you’re waking up to greet the day. So now you know, if you’re asked to rank the worst to best times to get shit on. You’ll be prepared to answer.



Grapes of Wrath

I’ve spent a considerable amount of time during the ‘Tine of 2020 on my deck this season, Reader. Coupled with my five-minute yoga moves which force me to look up and stare off into space during a lot of the moves, I’ve seen some things.

Maybe not as many things as my neighbors have possibly seen, because let’s recap: sometimes I yoga without clothes on out here. It’s just quite freeing and also I have a possibly false perception that I am invisible out here.

What I’ve noticed lately, and became my Mission, was that my trees are filled with a canopy of grapes.

I became determined to find a way to sample what could possibly be the best wild grapes in the entire universe, growing right here at Chez Bang Bang.

Yes, I believed they could be that good.

Optimism, Reader.

I went to the garage and grabbed my long-handled grabby-pully-cutty tool and got to work harvesting.

Except. I was just a teensy weensy tich too short to reach the vine without standing on a ladder.

And I’m not standing on a ladder, on my deck, which is a whole story up off the ground, because I can see the makings of Disaster as clearly as I could see those grapes.

My balance isn’t ideal on an ideal day.  Couple that with my still-ouchy-from-surgery stomach and a great big pain in my right side when I reach and bend that I’ve had since surgery, and there was no way I was climbing a ladder with a grabby-pully-cutty tool in hand, then trying to reach up to the sky with no hands on the ladder. Not even the allure of the possibility of the best grapes in the universe could sway me into making that bad decision.

So I did what any industrious person would do, and I called for the person who’s taller than me to come out and assist.

My Mister was less than thrilled by this endeavor.

My Mister: “I don’t think you should be trying to eat those grapes! What if they’re poisonous, like mushrooms?!”

Trixie: “That is crazy talk. There are not categories of poisonous grapes. Now reach up there with the grabby-pully-cutty tool and bring that vine down to me.”

The vine was a bit more difficult to grab and pull down. Let’s just suffice it to say a lot lot lot of swearing happened.

And then My Mister got super flustrated (yes, flustered and frustrated, it’s a word I just made up), and his face turned red and he wanted to throw the grabby-pully-cutty tool at me but didn’t, and declared, “This is FUCKING STUPID and YOU’RE STUPID for wanting to try those poisonous grapes!”

Except he didn’t actually say “You’re stupid,” but I could feel the thoughts swirling in his brain.

So I grabbed the grabby-pully-cutty tool, and because My Mister had managed to somehow get the vine a little closer, I was able to reach it and snip off a bunch and into my hands. And no, I don’t have a photo of my victory, and I’m disappointed in me that in my excitement I neglected to photo proof the evidence.

The grapes were smaller than the size of a dime, but perfectly purple and ripe. I plopped one into my mouth, much to My Mister’s disgust.

MM: “Aren’t you going to wash them?”

Trixie: “They’ve been hanging in the sky, what could possibly be on them that needs washed off??”

MM: “Pollution?”

I was undeterred, because I’m an adventurer. I should have my own adventurous eating show.  Things I’m willing to put in my mouth without washing them. It wouldn’t be the first thing if you know what I mean, Reader. I’m not sure that you do, because I’m not even sure myself, but it sounds slightly scandalous and adventurous.

Upon tasting the wild grapes, I was disheartened to learn they are not, in fact, the best grapes in the universe, and are mostly comprised of seeds. The seeds were more than the grape meat.

Overall the taste wasn’t offensive, and I even convinced my Doubting Mister to adventure-taste with me and he tried an unwashed grape himself.

But because of the heavy seeding, I have concluded they are not worth My Mister’s fury in trying to harvest them. They shall be left to the birds and the squirrels and not stomped into wine or jelly for myself. And my weekend just got a little more freed up, which is why I had time to blabble (yes, blabble, babble + blather, it’s another official word I just made up) on here. You can thank bad grapes for this, which would probably be the first time you’ve ever thanked bad grapes for anything. If it’s not the first time you’ve ever thanked bad grapes, please leave a comment and share the details of that story because I’d really like to hear.



Not As Planned

Because I’m not a young chippie any longer, I had a whole VIT (very important thing) I was going to chat to you about today, and now I sit here with my cuppa coffee and fingers ready, and for the life of me, cannot remember what in carnation that VIT is.  And yes, I just ended a sentence with the word “is” but I’m flouting grammar rules today.

Even Jane Doe looks perplexed.  She came and enjoyed the green grapes from Trixie’s Cafe this morning. Lil’ Fatty Squirrel wasn’t out there but he has a peanut butter and toasted coconut flakes roll-up waiting for him upon his arrival for breakfast. He must like to sleep in on the weekends.

While making that roll-up I realized how delicious it looked and gave it a taste test. I officially make the critters better meals than I make for myself. Last night’s dinner for myself was frosted mini wheat with blueberries, which was delicious, while Taco had a bowl of taco meat, fried corn and a few leftover fried green tomatoes, with a Reeses Cup thrown on top for a little something sweet.  That girl loves her sweets.

*in full meal disclosure, the taco meat was because I cleaned out the freezer, and the fried corn was from some yucky roadside stand corn I purchased recently that was thick and mealy tasting and didn’t get better cut off the cob and fried up with butter and peppers. It was originally intended for me, but it was not calorie-worthy. Even with a glob of butter.

I have an Event to attend today so I guess I’d better just let this sit right here until the VIT comes back to me. I’ve gotta make myself a little breakfast and shower up all my parts.

Stay tuned. There may (or may not) be a better story to tell later. This is just my placeholder story to keep my fingers in practice. I don’t feel guilty about wasting your time, because you’d be wasting it anyway getting mad at me someone on Facebook. Consider this your 1-minute reprieve. You’re welcome.

The Weight of Things

Do you have any idea how much you sound like an alcoholic when you’re trying to convince a team of people that you’re not a heavy drinker?

You sound like a lot of an alcoholic, Reader.

Through good luck* and good grace*, I ended up smack-dab where I didn’t want to be this year, which was right in the hospital with an Unexpected Thing That Sucked, and one of the two main causes of The Thing That Sucked is heavy drinking. The other thing is a shitty gallbladder, which we didn’t determine I had, so all signs were pointing to how much of a tippler I am.

*the very opposite of both

ER Doctor: “So, would you say you’re a heavy drinker?”

Trixie, writhing around in pain before the morphine had a chance to kick in: “No! I mean, no, I don’t think so, what is considered a heavy drinker….I have some cocktails. but mostly not that often, usually…In fact, my cousin and I just decided that we were going to have Dry August and stop drinking for the entire month!”

ER Doctor: “So……you drink enough to abolish drinking?”

Trixie: “No! I mean, we did it to lose weight, because I joined Weight Watchers but then I unjoined that and bought the Lose It app, and I mean, I’ve had a couple drinks anyway because I didn’t want to not have any drinks in August, but mostly no drinks! and not because I’m a heavy drinker, but for weight loss!”

ER Doctor: “When was the last time you had a drink?”

Trixie, doing the math: “Um, maybe Thursday? Or Saturday? Saturday. I had a rum runner or a pain killer or something, but just one, and before that it was one vodka+cran at a bonfire, but I didn’t even drink the whole entire thing, and that’s like two in a week during Times of Corona, so not even anything if you’re doing Corona Math.”

Trixie, continuing on: “I mean, I bought a case of wine in July and I’ve barely even had any of it, because I’m home alone a lot of the time and the only one who drinks wine in the house so if I open a bottle, I drink the whole thing myself, so I still have most of it left!”

ER Doctor: “Well, your liver has really high enzymes.”

Trixie: “Man that STINKS! I’m always trying to give my liver a rest! It don’t even take all the medications I’m prescribed because I think she should get a rest from all that processing.”

Trixie: “I’ve even switched up my morning beverage routine to incorporate a glass of lemon water before I even have a cuppa coffee just to really clean up my insides and get ’em going for the day! I love my insides!”

ER Doctor: “So what about recreational drugs? Do you take any drugs?”

Trixie, doing some self reflection: I must present myself like a really sketchy character to the world. I just had my hair done last night, so I’m not even looking terribly trashy. What the hell is going on here.

I absolutely felt like the Trixie Doth Protest Too Much, and also just stop talking, Me.

The good news was they deduced it was just a shitty gallbladder causing all my problems inside, and even though my gallbladder itself wasn’t acting up, we decided to get rid of that damn thing anyway, and I asked how much it weighed because I wanted at least a 1 lb. weight loss from the whole ordeal.

Priorities, Reader.



Ready or Not

Where in the world did we leave off, Reader??

It’s been so long, Trixie The Reluctant Blogger can’t even remember how to tell a story.

I just painted my nails and now they are smeared. Impatient.

It’s officially 2020: The Year that Nothing Happened And Everything Happened.

Spent leaves have fallen on my summer deck, a reminder that I am not ready for Fall. At all.

I am not ready for crisp air, long sleeves, apple pies and fuzzy blankets. Not yet…not yet.

I want to hold just a little more tightly to hot sunny days and cloudless blue Ohio skies, thirsty grass, juicy peaches, and too-warm breezes, please just a little longer.

I am not ready. Patience.

I want gentler days, more lazy porch naps, listening to the cacophony of summer from my back deck.

Ready or not, August is coming to a close. I am going to remind myself to be gentler, kinder, softer, slower, lazier, and grateful. It’s one way I can hold on to what I want more of, until I’m ready for the next brisk season.






Mostly, no.

I don’t know about you, Reader, but I have not been spending the bulk of my time doing things to get me closer to where I’d like to be in life. I kinda blame social media instead of myself, because I’m taking my cues from the president and Take No Responsibility for Anything, Ever, and Just Say I’m Doing a Terrific Job.

Except mostly there comes a time when you have to truly look at yourself and decide if you are doing a terrific job – at least normal humans do – or should.

So I took some looks at myself, oftentimes naked and in my full-length reflective glass patio door, and determined that I need to take steps today to get me where I want to be tomorrow. And then I joined WW, even though it super-fucking-annoys me that it’s renamed WW, much like “Dunkin'” renaming itself. I don’t approve of renaming things for no good reason. It’s just dumb. We are already a shorthand society.

I’m only a recently-rejoined WW member and I’ve only sometimes stayed within my points, but much like My 600-lb. Life participants, I still hoped for stellar results on the scale this morning, and was disappointed it was 2 pounds. Dr. Now would tell me I should easily be able to lose 5 lbs a week if I would just stick to the plan.

The other evening I watched an episode of My 600-lbs and lemmee just tell you – I feel their struggle. I do not know HOW they go from eating 40,000 calories a day to 1,200. A girl’s hungry and only wants to eat so many eggs in a day.

I also noted during that episode that a lot of their exercising looks very similar in form to mine. Mostly flailing your arms around and going for a short-ish walk.

I’m not sure exactly how I’ve gotten to this particular point in life at the moment. I’m talking holistically, not just in regards to weight.

I’m dissatisfied with what I’ve created for myself. I am capable of more. I need to spend my time more wisely. I enjoy sitting here and letting thoughts spill from my head to my hands and into the universe. Yet I don’t afford enough time to it, and instead I spend far too much time checking out how other people are spending their time.

So basically, I’ve decided on a 30-day detox. Because 30 days are going to go by anyway, and I’ve already used the whole “it’s a pandemic, don’t pressure me to do stuff, World!” long enough, and I want to do more things today that move me towards where and who I want to be tomorrow.

Don’t Forget To Tip Your Waitress

Chez Bang Bang has officially become an unofficial wildlife preserve and I am unofficially Trixie Dolittle, which is also appropriate as it describes exactly how I like to spend my weekend – doing little, which is also why I, the Reluctant Gardener, STILL haven’t planted my babies that I carefully and lovingly nurtured from the seeds from Flavor Bomb tomatoes all the way back in the early days of The Q*.

*you know The Q. The Big ‘Tine of 2020. When we all stayed home, saved up some money because there was nothing to spend it on, forgot how to wear bras and often times underwears, discovered we hate wearing makeup, bonded a little too tightly with our cat and may just actually have started to believe we are a mother/daughter duo and have been practicing a song and dance routine, suffered from a little depression/anxiety and now takes a pill for that, ate every baked good this side of the Mason-Dixon line, and made Netflix our new boyfriend by spending many nights on the couch or in bed together.

This post has quickly become long, run-on sentences and we’re just going to let it ride itself out. You can’t squash creativity once it gets rolling, Reader.

During all this stay-the-eff-home time, I opened a little restaurant called Trixie’s Cafe.

And my customers started pouring in.

Jane Doe stopped in to check out the menu, and she now swings by almost daily. She likes to come for the fruit, doesn’t care for the vegetables.

And yes, that’s my beloved indoor house-cat sitting in the middle of the street, like he owns that shit. It’s all about attitude, Reader. Believe you’re bigger and badder than you are, and you can stop traffic.  At least on a quiet no-one-drives-down-it-unless-they-live-here street.

Another customer, Lil’ Fatty (that’s his rapper name, he’s in the music industry and is trying to knock Alvin and The Chipmunks off the Billboard Chatter list), Lil’ Fatty is fond of peanut butter or sunflower seed spread sammy’s, cut into easy-to-handle quarters.  He’s mostly around for breakfast, he likes to eat his biggest meal of the day early on. He can be a little demanding and the other day the chef had nothing handy so she served him a samoa cookie, and he did seem to be a fan of coconut goodness.

And of course, there’s Taco, the blind outdoor kitty raccoon. Taco is who prompted me to actually open Trixie’s Cafe, she believed in me and our mission (to keep her well-fed on a daily basis so she stays out of everyone’s trash cans).

I was a little irked one day last week; the chef at Trixie’s Cafe (me) took a hiatus from cooking and Taco hadn’t been showing up on a regular schedule so we got a little lax in serving. And then later one evening, My Mister found her in a trash can we left outside of the garage after a cookout, and I was a little furious at the situation. Not at our girl Taco; I was mad at these lazy restaurant owners (me and My Mister) who’s negligence forced this sweet girl to scavange around like an animal, trying to find something in a damn trash can.  We quickly opened the kitchen and took her a proper meal.

She has a really tough time seeing and just yesterday she walked into the post of my bottom deck. And that’s why I try to serve her up something hot, so she can find it using her exceptional sniffer.

Yesterday’s menu offered up a Handheld Omelette – ribeye and chicken omelette served up in a hotdog bun.

The irony of it was the chef was too lazy to cook for herself and had a bowl of frosted mini wheat for dinner.

The chef has taken some very creative liberties with the menu, and actually crafted a brand new sandwich item that she named You Want This in Your Mouth sandwich.

It came to her in a rush, the way most great things do – the idea just flowed through with a ranging energy. And also, Taco was sniffing around outside so the chef was trying to quickly cobble something together with what was easily at hand before she wandered off.

The You Want This in Your Mouth consisted of a slice of Costco’s most delicious cinnamon bread.

If you haven’ tried this, Reader, I insist you do. Your life – and your weight – will be changed forever. If you don’t have a Costco membership, stop in to Trixie’s Cafe. We will serve you up two piping-hot slices with Kerrygold butter – which is truly the butter your tastebuds deserve – and a cuppa joe of your choice.

Back to the sandwich. So we started with a slice of cinnamon streusel, untoasted because there was no time. Haste is sometimes the mother of invention, is how the saying goes I’m making up right now.

From there, I slathered on a thin layer of peanut butter for a good does of healthy fat and protein, to keep her energy up and her coat shiny.

It seemed kinda plain, and I had a corner of leftover cheesecake in the refrigerator so I took that out and spread that over the peanut butter.

After folding over the bread into a half-sandwich, the waitress (also me) went to serve it to Taco, but along the way took another hard look at this sandwich and decided, “This looks amazing, and I need to take a bite!”

Two great tastes – peanut butter and cheesecake – would they taste great together with a cinnamon base?

I had to know. 

And that’s how Trixie officially ate raccoon food and also invented a new sandwich – which DID taste amazing – and aptly named it You Need This is Your Mouth.

Stop over for a bite sometime, Reader. I just ordered a case of wine, so even if you don’t like the cooking, we can get drunk together. And that’s the cornerstone of a great cafe.


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Hard of Purring

Me: “I think Kitty Purry is losing her hearing.”

Him: “What makes you think that?”

Me: “Well, when I call her name or when I try to wake her up when she’s sleeping, she doesn’t move.”

Him:  ~ just looks at me ~

Me: “So therefore she must be losing her hearing. Otherwise she would turn to look or at least twitch.”

Him: ~ still staring ~

Me: “Today I did a test and made a lot of loud bangs and trilling noises when she was snoozing on the porch and she didn’t move at all until I touched her.”

Him, finally chiming in: “Maybe because she was sleeping.”

Me: “I think we need to give her a hearing test.”

Him: “And what do you think that involves?”

Me: “Standing behind her and banging on stuff and see if she moves her head.”

Him, calling Purry! P U R R Y!! , who was just sitting on the outdoor couch minding her own business.

Purry looks over towards him, a disdain and annoyance.

And I think we have our answer: All cats are hard of hearing.

Not a Good Reason

You’re getting a rare glimpse of the most elusive of my six three cats, Reader, and I know that your day has now been m.a.d.e.

She is a certified weirdo. Well, not technically “certified” but I could create a certificate that says so if you’re going to push it with me.

Sammi is weird because she hates too much attention from us, her providers, but if you’re a stranger who pops in, she is all. over. you.  She reaches up and will incessantly pat your arm with her paws, will rub against you – she will pull out all the cat works.

But us? Runs. Can’t pick her up, oh, no.  She will back-claw the shit out of us to get away.

I actually snuck up on her this morning while she was napping on the couch and managed to give her a little scratch on the head.  She’s good on affection for the rest of the month now. Unless you stop in, Reader. Then you’d swear we starve her for affection and feel the need to want to rescue her from her awful captors.

We had an insurance lady stop over one day this past week, and Sammi jumped up on the chair behind her and started to paw her way up her back, wanting to play in her hair. It’s just true weirdo behavior.

But enough about her. You don’t come here for cat stories oh yes you do.

The insurance lady was here because for some reason –  maybe it was the plague of 2020 –  the seed was planted in my brain that I needed to have a policy in the event of my untimely death, so that my three damn cats wouldn’t be homeless and end up in a shelter somewhere. I needed to have some money to pay off a mortgage to keep a roof over their heads.

While the Lady was here, we decided that why was My Mister the only one making out in that scenario, and I pressured him into also getting a policy with my name on it. It’s only fair.

Then we both got into the particulars with The Lady, discussing exactly what pays out in the event of an untimely death, i.e., one of us falls on a knife twelve times, or how long we have to wait to collect if one of us just up and runs away and is never seen again. You know, the important questions.

The good news is, our policies aren’t large enough to be incentive to go to the trouble to murder each other. We watch enough Forensic Files to know how much work it is to cover your tracks and neither one of us could lift the other to stuff us in a freezer. My years of working on cake has played into my plan to be too heavy to lift alone, thereby preventing My Mister from deciding to murder me.

I still have to make out my will and do responsible shit of that nature, but we took a first step into being Responsible Adults towards each other.  And you wonder why I haven’t been here for you, Reader. It had nothing to do with my professional-level procrastination. It was strictly the result of time-consuming adulting.

What’cha Get

So this morning (sssshhhh…it was noon-ish), I was out on my deck drinking coffee naked and engaging my bod in active yoga poses when I caught a glimpsy of my nakey self in the sliding glass door.


Now, first, don’t all of us sit on the deck naked? I mean, it’s 68 sunny damn degrees. It was begging for my clothes to come off to catch up all the Vitamin D it could, and they say the body craves what it needs, and mine was craving more sun on my pasty skin so obvi I had to do it for my health.

I know, I know – I, too, am slightly worried that I can be viewed by the neighbors. But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – they’re only going to look once. Then they’ll be busy taking up a petition with the whole entire block to force me to wear clothes when I’m outside. Since that hasn’t happened yet, I assume I’m invisible when I’m out there.

Anyway, the point of this story is this:

1/ I need to shave my legs. Wowie, Reader. This Quarantine hasn’t done my grooming any favors. Catching a glimpse of those things in the harsh light of day made that crystal clear.

2/ While doing a hamstring stretch with my leg on the table, something large and moving caught my peripheral vision and I screamed for My Mister. He came slowly lumbering out the door to see what the ruckus was – I’m going on the record of saying that he should really move just a tich faster when he hears me scream, and I think you would all agree. I could literally be bled out before he made his way to check out the sitch. Just the other day I was getting out of the shower and let out a bloodcurdler, and he didn’t even jump up off the bed – 5 steps away – until I yelled, “CAN YOU COME IN HERE FOR FUCKSSAKE?!!” 

At that point he said, “That was a scream like I haven’t heard from you before, I thought maybe you’d fallen in there.”

Let that soak in, Reader.

“A scream like I haven’t heard from you before.”

“I thought maybe you’d fallen.”

To which I ask you, Reader, why didn’t he spring up to check it out?? Why was he still lying on the BED if that’s the case??

This is the level of care and concern I get around here, and you should know it, just in case something DOES happen to me, you can stand at my funeral and lambaste him for his lagging response time. That’s exactly what I want to happen at my funeral: Lambaste and Shame My Mister if I should die in a home accident because he didn’t promptly respond. Now that we have my funeral goals established, let’s move on.

To answer your question, the Bathroom Scream resulted from a million-legger walking around on the wall near my towel. He got re-homed outside of the home.

The second Deck Scream was because I saw a very dangerous and treacherous leaf shadow dancing around on the back of the chair next to me.

Which is probably why My Mister lumbers towards when he hears me scream, I’m literally the Girl Who Cries Bug, but I still demand prompt and thorough attention when a scream is involved and feel that is only right and justified for all that I give around here. Which is a lot, Reader, believe you me. And I’m not even counting the Unprompted Peep Shows and Moonings I deliver on a somewhat regular basis.

3/ The third and final Naked Deck Discovery today was when I spied with my little eye my sideways reflection in the sliding glass door. I mean. Wow. I startled myself. I told My Mister, “I just don’t think I’m THIS FAT when I think of myself.”

He thoughtfully replied, “Well, who do you think you look like, Charlize Theron?” and then he hee hee’d and hawww haha’d for a good two minutes at his own cleverness.

So basically in my mind’s eye I’m only half as fat as I am in reality, and My Mister isn’t having sex (with a partner – he may be having all sorts of sex by himself for all I know) for two weeks due to his own funny haha’s.

I think we could all agree that’s only fair.



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