I admit surprise upon finding your catalog with my mail delivery. Perhaps you found my address deep in the brackish waters of the Williams-Sonoma summer catalog mailing, dreams of clambakes and lobster rolls nestled among its many pages, but you should leave the unwilling alone.
Furious at your gall (What if I couldn't have children? What if they antagonized me?), I called your 800 number, and the most delightful woman answered. I lost my fight. I was being bratty. She made right what you made wrong. She sympathized like an oma who adores you.
Also, does Abby really need that giant bathroom? I guess she does. Do Erica and Logan need that cabana? With lockers? It freaks me out, PBK. It makes me feel gross and indulgent, which I guess I am by many standards. I have bathrooms! I have no time for extra existential crises, PBK! I will fight you back, crises! Como Mac Dre, I switch hit, and play with both mitts (Rest in thizz, Furl). Do not start!
We're square. I have to eat something.
H.A.L.T.,
The D.L.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment