Just saw a craigslist ad for a job as a “children’s photographer” and misread it as “children’s pornographer.”
Started reading Raymond Carver’s “Where I’m Calling From.” So far… fishing, boners, kids being the little shits they really are, and married people who hate each other. So! Uplifting!
The cats are all lazy (sonsof)bitches. They are no help at all.
I feel like all the furniture is leaning INTO the room, and someone will find me in a few days under the bookcase. It’s IKEA though; I’d probably be OK.
Looked at all my old photographs. I think I’m a serial girlfriend. And why do I always take these idiots on trips with me?
