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I have a million email addresses. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. I really have eleven email addresses. That may seem a bit excessive to you, but when you work online it becomes necessary. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Recently, my Yahoo email account was hacked. I know because I mother called me the other day and said, “I got this email from you that said ‘Have the best sex of your life.’ When I clicked on the link in the email it took me to this website. I don’t understand what the joke was.” Of course she thought it was a joke because most of my emails are, but does she really think I’d send an email about having the best sex of your life to her–MY MOTHER. That was no joke. That was the serious business of email hacking. If you’re reading this and you’ve recently started getting emails from me about Viagra and sex parties, I’m sorry. Don’t open the emails and don’t click on the links contained therein.
I’ve spent all morning trying to take care of this situation. Hopefully, I have. I’ll just have to wait and see.
The other day someone knocked on our door to find out if we wanted to sell our car, Frank, for scrap metal. Frank doesn’t look that good, but we didn’t realize that he looked that bad. He’s loud and rough, but he’s reliable and that’s all we need.
I was so happy to find out that the date of the Rapture has been pushed back. To be perfectly honest, I just wasn’t ready yet. This may seem trivial considering that most people would love to be swept up to heaven in blink of an eye, but I haven’t finished my Flickr Project 365 yet. I don’t think it would be responsible of me to leave my husband to deal with our weed infested driveway alone either. Maybe I sound presumptuous to you, but come on, take a look at the two of us and you’ll notice that certain people who live in this flat just may be sprouting horns. I don’t think they allow horns in Heaven.
Additional Information:
In case you’re interested, I’m starting to post my short stories on this site.
My husband has decided to write a sad song for his album Patrick Sings His Innermost Feelings. He took advantage of the low voice his recent cold gave him when recording the vocals. It’s called People are Sad. Anyway, we hope you like it. Don’t let it make you feel too sad.
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The other day I was walking down the street with my husband talking about the King James Version of the Bible (isn’t that what everyone talks about when they walk down the street?) when suddenly my syllables got all mixed up. Instead of King James Version, I said King Germ’s Vagina. Then I responded as any sane person would. I ran away. He, of course, ran after me laughing and saying, “Where are you going?” No matter how fast you run, you can’t run away from embarrassment.
Story 2
My sense of direction in down town London is pretty horrendous. The other day we were walking from Soho Square to some place else (I can’t remember where we were going exactly) when my husband asked me if I knew where I was. Taking a quick look around and recognizing a landmark, I said, “Yeah, because that’s the Harmony adult store over there.” After that I was teased for the rest of the day because I use sex shops as landmarks to help me find my way. I couldn’t even defend myself because it’s true. I don’t know the names of most of them, but when I see the shop with the green window frames and The Big Penis Book in the window, I know where I am. When I see the shop with the mannequin in the blond wig and dominatrix outfit, I know where I am.
The flags are up and throngs of people line the streets of London having a kind street party. Street parties are what we do when we have something to celebrate. That’s what my mother-in-law told me. All of Britain definitely has reason to celebrate today because the Bettisons have arrived from Australia this morning. Let the party begin!
I think there is an alien trapped in my skull trying desperately to break free. Either that or I have a head cold. I’m banking on the alien. It makes more sense and would explain the cosmic ooze coming from my nose.
No time to write now. I have lots of sleeping to do. I have to get over this quickly.
When my husband got home from his gig tonight he asked me if Esperanza Spalding had Brazilian parents. Apparently, he had a bit of a disagreement with someone about her ancestry. Someone was insisting that she was Brazilian and my husband insisted that she was African-American or what I sometimes refer to as North American Black. I find that it causes less confusion when living overseas.
Anyway, I went to Wikipedia to find out about her ancestry for certain. Instead, I learned that she deserves nothing. In fact, she is non-existent. I copied the page because I knew it wouldn’t be up long. Here it is.
Biography
Early life and education
WHO IS ESPERANZA SPALDING!?!? REVOKE HER GRAMMY. SHE DESERVES NOTHING! I FEEL SORRY FOR JUSTIN BIEBER… HE SHOULD HAVE WON THE GRAMMY. ESPERANZA SPALDING, YOU ARE NONEXISTENT!
Spalding grew up in the King neighborhood of Portland, Oregon,[6] a neighborhood she describes as “ghetto” and “pretty scary”.[7] Her mother raised her and her brother as a single parent.[8]
Spalding has a diverse ethnic background.[7][9] She notes, “My mom is Welsh, Hispanic, and Native American, and my father is black.”[10][11] She also has an interest in the music of other cultures, including that of Brazil,[12] commenting, “With Portuguese songs the phrasing of the melody is intrinsically linked with the language, and it’s beautiful”.[13]
Poor Justin Bieber. Well at least he has the privilege of existing.
The Super Bowl was yesterday and of course my husband was up all night watching the game. I opted to stay home and sleep. The only athletic event I’m every interested in watching is power breaking. There’s something thrilling in that moment before a person strikes a stack of fifteen boards when you’re wondering if he will break the boards or his hand. Now that’s a sport.
Anyway, I found this video and thought it was pretty funny.
