My father has chosen to write about homo chileno (which, if he bothered to know anything about the hated farce of taxonomy, is actually Homo sapiens chilensis); I'm, uh, here. I don't know who's coming out ahead.
If you must know, Homo sapiens chilensis is a particularly proud subspecies, with a vestigial irony node.
In any case, I just ate shit on my bike an hour ago, which resulted in the realization that I totally have a job now. Like, three times. First, I have health insurance (although I'm fine). Second, I have money to repair my bike tire (don't bike over grates, moron). Third, my hands were riddled with scratches and fresh scars which still look worse than my crash damage. This means I am working, because I am for some reason super bad about not fucking up my hands. There's the key I took to the dorsal thenar space, the two times my bike tore a small hole in my thumb, the mystery scratch from fuck if I know, and, of course, the time J's parents' door took a bite out of the skin on my index finger.
I needed that skin, you know. For things. I'm not sure if they're remodeling or booby-trapping.
Oh man, I'm going to totally regret riding over that grate tomorrow. More than I do now, I mean. The superficial damage is pathetic but the bruises are going to be somewhat more of a problem.
The parents are increasingly paranoid- I wouldn't put it past them.
ReplyDeleteThey did remove the spot where I've planning on hiding Jews.
Man, I can wait for your parents and mine to independently reinvent the Wincheester mystery house. Convergent madness, I wonder what Dawkins would have to say about that.
ReplyDelete