The Life of Bogart...

Every weekday morning my alarm goes off at 5 a.m. I hop up, stumble to the bathroom and take a hot groggy shower. When I'm done, I grab my clothes and look over at D and Bogart, peacefully alseep, the happy couple. Bogart is usually nestled in the fluffy folds of my pillow or under the covers completely. I finish getting ready in the downstairs bathroom (makeup, hair, etc. etc.) and then head to the kitchen for breakfast. When Bogart hears the bathroom door open, he leaps out of bed, gives his 6 pound body a little shake and crawls downstairs. I always wait for him in the entrance to the kitchen. He emerges from the dark shadows of the living room and into the kitchen light puffy faced and droopy eyed. He looks like an old wrinkled man and is absolutely cuter than words could ever describe. After I rub his belly and scratch behind his ears, I give him a piece of chicken jerky. Bogart LIVES for this stuff. The length of one piece is as long as his entire body, and he sits there knawing away at the tough treat as I make breakfast. By the time my oatmeal is ready and I've packed my lunch for the day ahead, he has completely devoured it. When we first bought the jerky and I would give it to him, I thought he hid half of it to save for later. He doesn't. He really eats it all at once, usually within a 5 to 10 minute time span. It is truly amazing. So I eat my breakfast while Bogart snuggles into my side on the couch. When I'm done, I pick Bogart up and hold him like a little baby. (ARE YOU TOTALLY PUKING BY NOW?) We go upstairs to lay with D for awhile and I kiss him goodbye. When I leave, Bogart and D are both fast asleep, once again. (Drew takes Bogart outside before he leaves and at lunch, do not be alarmed!). When I get home after work, 11 hours later, Bogart is ALWAYS laying at the top of the stairs asleep, waiting for someone to get home. ALWAYS. I'll walk in, say "Hi baby!" in a sugary sweet and very sickening voice. He'll pause, tilt his head to the side for just a moment and then dance downstairs to greet me. I say dance because his ass shakes uncontrollably. His tail wags so violently that if he were any bigger you'd feel the vibrations through the floor. He darts around the house with glee, happy that someone's home to pet his belly and feed him more jerky. GAWD I love my dog.


All Is Well...

Today we fina-FUCKING-lly got all of the wedding confusion figured out.

6 p.m. Friday, Sept. 23: I will be walking down the aisle in the arms of the beloved D, hair in a pretty updo, bulging pregnant belly unsuccessfully hidden under an OFF WHITE empire waisted floor length dress. Flowers, music, family and friends. There will be NO MASS, just a simple ceremony where I'll probably cry and snot through my vows and maybe even pass out.

7 p.m. Friday, Sept. 23: We arrive at The Tribute for the reception... hungry, tired, and glad the hard part is over. Now it's time to party, baby! Drinks and antipasto served while mushy love songs of our choice play in the back ground, and then we get down and dirty. Unlimited food, wine, Bud Lite and cake for all! Everyone leaves by 11 p.m., when D and I dash to the honeymoon suite where we'll probably just pass out from exhaustion. He'll be drunk and tired, I'll be pregnant and tired, and we'll wake up and realize that OH MY GOD WE ARE MARRIED. Which will be an awesome feeling!

So that's how it's supposed to go. I'm really excited now that we have everything figured out.

Now, do pregnant chicks have bachelorette parties?


Things I Love...

How about a list of things I love and things I hate to liven up the mood around here? Something light and silly amidst the wedding and family drama.

Things I Love...

1/ Peaches. Juicy, sweet, glorious fruit o' mine!
2/ When my boss leaves early. Today is not one of those days. FUCK.
3/ The fan that sits at my feet. Nothing like a cool breeze on a pregnant womans ankles in the hot texas heat.
4/ Reno 911. My GAWD! But who's the new chick cop?
5/ The amount of Led Zeppelin they play on my local oldies station. ROCK ON.

Things I Hate...

1/ The squeaking noise of my boss's chair
2/ When my dog eats his own poo. I cannot stress how much I dislike this behavior.
3/ That my black car ALWAYS looks dirty just because it's black. Is that racism?
4/ My mom sending me email saying "Just do your wedding how you want. Love you-- mom". Translation: I AM PISSED.
5/ Not being able to sleep on my back and consequently having to shift from side to side in a sleepy fit of frustration every 2 hours of the night.

I hate the fact that I couldn't think of anything more to add to my LOVE list after #5, but that my HATE list could've gone on forever! Does someone need a hug???



Yeah, so... remember that little pre-marriage retreat D and I were supposed to go to this past weekend? D gets home on Friday and we immediately shoot each other a look that says "This. Is. Going. To. Suck." But we pack up and drive across town anyway. The entire time D is whining about how he doesn't feel good (yeah, right!) and in my head I am telling myself that if the place gives me a bad feeling when we get there we can turn around and go home. I didn't say that out loud because I didn't want to get D's hopes up. I ended up calling it off after nearly an hour in traffic. We just kept driving. We could have gone anywhere, but of course we ended up at the mall AGAIN for the third Friday night in a row. I hate the mall. Anyway, I was glad that we didn't go because I got 2 days with D... it was awesome. And just spending time together doing whatever we wanted was much more theraputic than any weekend retreat ever could've been.


Happy Birthday Sabra!

Tomorrow is my friend Sabra's birthday. She will be twenty five. !25! We met at 14 or 15 years of age in freshman English at The Colony High School, otherwise known as hell. I thought her name was Satan and she thought my name was BITCH. I don't remember what made us become friends initially, but once we did we were inseperable. We shared a love of all things Nirvana, Hole, and blue nailpolish. She adored John Daniels and I was in love with Steve Cardone. We both wore airwalks and torn jeans, because we did not need to CONFORM, dammit! We were grunge all the way, baby. Let us remember a few of the many, MANY adventures of Sara and Sabra.

- Of course, the first night I ever stayed at her house. Sabe's room had a cool black and white theme, with pictures torn out of Rolling Stone and Spin magazine covering the walls. That night, we proceeded to drink whiskey straight from the bottle with her pencil-dicked neighbor, Billy. The last thing I remember was laying on her bedroom floor. I puked on myself, then rolled over into a corner and puked again. I repeated this pattern a good 2-3 times, and then the room spun me to sleep. The next morning I was introduced to my first hangover. And she still wanted to be my friend!

- The night that Sabra, Sarah Brown and I walked the streets with a carton of Sarah's mom's Marlboro lights. We smoked eight million cigarettes each. We went back to Sabra's and listened to Bush, feverishly gabbing about the hotness of Gavin Rosdale. Then we all got light headed and nauseous. Turns out the cigarettes had been recalled because they contained formaldehyde. Our insides are forever preserved.

- I remember Sabra and I walking home from school one HOT, HELLISH afternoon... TO HER HOUSE a million miles away. Of course we were both dressed in dark jeans and shirts, and I was wearing actual COMBAT BOOTS. I also had blue-black hair and was ghostly white. I WAS SCARY. Sabra was all cute and blonde and innocent. I was a member of Marilyn Manson. We went to Winn-Dixie and stuffed various goodies into our Jansport backpacks. I distinctly remember swiping a delicious tube of pringles, and that Sabra was MUCH better at stealing than I was. Someone had a little bit of experience, I think.

- Last but certainly not least, the time that we were smoking pot in the ditch by Sabra's house. (very rock n' roll, right?). We were also drinking something cheap and disgusting, like MadDog, and I couldn't hold my shit together. I ran inside and threw up in their kitchen sink. Sabra came in moments later and asked if I was ok. I said yes, but that I'd puked in their sink, then collapsed in a disgusting pile of fucked-up-ness on her couch. Sabe asked if I had washed it down and I said no, pleading with her not to make me get up. Later inspection of the sink revealed whole beans. I had puked up whole beans. And Sabra washed it down. God Bless this Girl!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SABRA! There won't be any puking this year!

Engaged Encounter...

This weekend D and I will be spending 7:30 p.m. tonight through Sunday afternoon at a workshop called, "Engaged Encounter". It's at a Catholic Renewal center a few towns over. It was suggested (read: REQUIRED) by the priest that is marrying us. We are supposed to learn important communication skills for our marriage from volunteer couples. The weekend ordeal costs $150, and I am SCARED for several reasons:

1- Neither D nor I are particularly religious. We are getting married in a church for the sake of my grandparents, to be quite honest. Not to say that we don't believe in a higher power, but we do not believe in any organized religion. Shhhhh!

2- I am over 4 months pregnant, and D and I have been living together for almost 2 years. This is frowned upon in the church to say the least. The priest that's marrying us knows and doesn't have a problem with it since we got pregnant AFTER we had plans to get married. But still... I think they just might tie me to a pole and throw hardcover Bibles at me. I shall pack protective clothing.

3- We will sleep seperately, in dormitory-style rooms, with at least one other member of the group. I have had nightmares of being kept awake all night long by the other women I'll room with. They'll bring out their Bibles and read aloud, occasionally breaking out into song and shooting my pregnant ass disapproving looks from across the room.

4- We must eat 4 meals there. 4!! 3 meals on Saturday and breakfast on Sunday. I'm thinking elementary-style cafeteria food. My baby will starve!

5- They've made it quite clear that we are NOT TO LEAVE THE RENEWAL CENTER FOR ANY REASON the entire weekend. I got a confirmation phone call last night from one of the volunteer weekend leaders. "Bring a snack to share with the group. Check in is from 6:30 - 7:45 p.m. Friday night. Bring bedding, you may have to sleep on the floor. If you forget something, the group leaders will be going to the store on Saturday morning. YOU MUST NOT LEAVE. We look forward to seeing you!"

I'm not sleeping on the floor. I'm not paying $150 to sleep on the floor! I'll use my pregnancy card in a heartbeat I will! And I kind of want to leave. Like, during a break, run to the corner store or something. Breaking rules, that's my game. I thought I'd outgrown this rebellious phase years ago. Alas, I still laugh in the face of authority and hate being told what to do.


The High and Mighty...

This morning my boss set his bible in his outbox. Thinking it was a work reference book, I picked it up and asked where he wanted me to shelve it. Later, he came out of his office and asked me if my fingers burned when I had touched his bible. *insert foul and insulting language here*


Bump in the Night...

Saturday at precisely 3:07 a.m., I abruptly awoke to my heart rattling in my chest. Someone had their music up LOUD, and the base was shaking me to the core. At first I thought that it was just a car passing by, but after a good 5 minutes of 'thump, thump thump, THUUUUUUMP', I knew it was our new neighbor. D stumbled to the east wall and put his ear to it... "Yeah, it's our fucking new neighbor" he told me. "Oh HELL no!" I exclaimed, my cheeks growing hot with fury. They'd only begun moving in THAT SAME DAY, and already they were disturbing us!? I stomped down stairs in my pajamas, my hair an absolute mess, my face imprinted with pillow-y goodness, and went to their front door. Just as I raised my fist to knock, our neighbor on the other side of these new and already disliked neighbors came around the corner in HER pj's, too. I thought, 'sweet, backup!'. I knocked and within seconds a skinny, pale, stringy haired kid with a birds nest goatee stepped outside. "Yeah, uh..." I began. "We're all down with the cool music and shit, but not at 3 a.m." was all I could think to say without being a total bitch. "Yeah," backup neighbor agreed. "Ok," he nodded his head and quietly went back inside. I stormed back in and dove under the covers. And then it occured to me... I AM ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE. I never thought I'd be the totally unhip adult knocking on someone's door telling them to turn down the fucking music so that I could sleep. It wasn't but maybe 2 years ago that I WAS that kid. And now... pregnant, about to be married, AN ADULT... I was the annoyed mature one ruining all the fun. I felt guilty as I drifted back to sleep. At 7:45 a.m., I woke up ONCE AGAIN to the same base line. FUCKER. I shivered, pulled the covers over my head and tried to drown out the unbearable rattling. The worst part? He was playing Cypress Hill, OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER. No variety. I guess he only owns one cd. When D came home from work at 9:45 a.m., he said that they were sitting outside drinking BUD ICE. On a Sunday morning. Welcome, new neighbors!! WHAT CRAP.


The Last Time...

I painted my toenails last night, like I do every other week. It will be the last time until this baby is born. I twisted and turned and grunted and almost passed out from lack of oxygen, all just to make my toes look pretty. It'll be pro-pedicures from here on out, or naked toenails. I thought about having D paint them, but I would likely end up looking as though my feet have been knawed on by a rabid dog.

Things at home are great. D is working long hours which blows but also means some extra $dough$, and that's always a good thing. Bogart is cute as hell and I SWEAR he understands what I'm saying when I talk to him. I can see it in his eyes. He's saying 'shut the fuck up and give me more treats, woman. I know I'm cute.' The little bastard.

Such baby friendly, mommy-like language, I know. I'm working on it. Actually, I'm not working on it. I'm trying to wear myself out on the cussing so that all of my favorite words will have lost their appeal by the time baby comes. Also? I'm watching as much raunchy no good trashtastic t.v. as possible. After December, life will consist of Teletubbies and Baby Einstein and drool and poop and all things cute, fluffy and non-cussing. I'm almost ready.


Puff, puff, pass...

Lately I've really been on D's ass to quit smoking. We both smoked when we met, and at one point this last year I quit while he continued to puff. I urged him to quit, too, but was secretly proud that I could quit and he couldn't, and I enjoyed telling other people that I QUIT when he would go to light up. After about 6 months, sadly, with my tail tucked between my legs, I began smoking again. I was up to about 3/4 of a pack a day when I learned I was pregnant, and I have not even TOUCHED a smoke since the two little pink lines revealed themselves on my home pregnancy test. I always knew I'd be able to quit in the blink of an eye if/when I got pregnant. The thought of my unborn child inhaling something so awful makes me shiver with disgust.

Now I'm nagging and bitching and moaning for D to quit more than ever. Not only do I not want him to smoke when the baby is born, and of course for the obvious health reasons, but because I AM DYING FOR A CIGARETTE. I won't light up. That's out of the question. But he needs to quit. I really think he should have quit with me. Perhaps he needs more time, and maybe he can take it because he is not growing our child inside of him, but GOOD GOD MAN... at least TRY! Am I being too hard on him? Expecting too much? Because in my mind, if I can quit, he can too. And I no longer bask in my glorious willpower, my ability to quit cold turkey. Now I'm just plain pissed that I had to give up my bad habit alone, and he gets to keep on puffing away. Growing up, we all had those friends with parents (or even our own parents) who smoked like chimneys. I so don't want to be those parents.


15/16 weeks...

I went to my monthly prenatal exam yesterday. I chatted it up with the doctor, got to listen to the baby's heartbeat again and had some blood taken for a standard test. Everything is great. And I'm feeling so much better lately. Of course I say this as I sip on a frosty chocolate shake (size=small... see, I'm finally demonstrating some sort of self control again, aren'tcha proud?), and really what could be wrong with life when you've got the sweet cold icy goodness of a chocolate shake rolling around on your tastebuds? NOTHING. So check back in 5 minutes when I'm done. But seriously, I'm right on with weight gain, baby is healthy, mama is healthy, and I learned that I will likely be induced the week before Christmas so that noone (doctor included) will have to spend the holidays in the hospital. Next appointment will be of the talking-listening-nothing-new-or-exciting variety as well, but the appointment after THAT one (in Sept) will be the highly highly highly highly anticipated ultra sound that hopefully shows us the sex of our baby. Cheeseburger or hot dog. Can I get a WHOOT-WHOOT?


I am now going prove the extreme distance between my highs and lows. My previous post was full of uncertainty, fear, worry and regret. I wrote that yesterday morning and by the time I got home I was so happy, everything was right with the world, we had the best night ever together. Today? Still happy. Things are grrrrrreat, just like Tony the Tiger says. I want to marry D. I will. And I can't wait to have this baby and to sit and adore my lovely little family. See? Yesterday I was a rambling nut and today I am happy and a little less nutty. Tomorrow everything will go to shit because I got a stain on my favorite white shirt but then the greater good will redeem itself when I find a $10 dollar bill in the laundry. Ahhhh, the highs and lows of pregnancy. And I thought I was crazy before... can anyone say BI-POLAR? In all honesty, I probably wrote yesterday's post because D forgot to pick up a sock. I'm serious.



Wedding in less than three months. I am very, very confused. This is not the kind of thing I suppose I am supposed to write about on the internet, but screw it. Noone reads my bullshit anyway.

Have you ever taken a step back and looked at your current situation as though you were not involved? As an outsider? And have you ever GASPED at some of the stupid choices and decisions you've made? I sure have. It's like watching a horrible movie where you scream at the main character to stop, don't do that, you're making a REALLY BAD DECISION! I am way to embarrased to mention my bad choices online. Because what it comes down to is that I was once pretty overweight. 50 lbs. overweight. Though I carried it well (haha) I had 0, nada, zip, zilch self esteem. I thought that whatever guy I could get was a godsend, because what man would want to be with my fat ass? I still took care of myself and all that, and I've always had a strong personality, but I always thought that looks were everything. EVERYTHING. Without them, you were worthless. I think this lack of self esteem is what gave me my addictive personality, one that leeches on to whatever makes me feel good and drowns out the bad for the moment. Drugs, alcohol, sex, more drugs, food, over-exercising, etc. etc. etc.

I grew up a chunky kid. Not fat, but enough to make me self conscious at a very early age. So when I started working out after highschool, I took it to the extreme. A year after adopting this so called "healthy" lifestyle, I was 110 pounds, 5'5" tall. Then 103 pounds. Then 88 pounds. I remember the day I weighed in at UNDER 100 POUNDS. I had always read those stories about girls with eating disorders that weighed less than a buck, and I always thought 'Wow, good thing I am HEALTHY, not obsessed'. I could not have been any more in denial. So when the doctor saw the scale at 90 lbs, and her brow furrowed in horror, I knew something was wrong. WITH EVERYONE ELSE. When I told me boyfriend at the time that I clocked in at a mere 90 lbs, veins popped out of his head that I'd never seen before. He was so angry and never understood why I wanted to lose weight in the first place. Bless his heart. He stayed with me much longer than he should have. Longer than I would have. Everyone else was wrong. Though I felt cold all the time, my hair was brittle and dry and I looked like I had come out of some kind of holocaust, I was "HEALTHY". And everyone else just could not accept my healthy lifestyle.

But at 88 lbs, I knew I needed help. My step dad had just died of cancer and things were awful. I remember that time in my life, those few years, and it all comes back to me like a fuzzy, cloudy, gray nightmare. After about a year of nutritional therapy, I "got better". Except for one thing. Things started escalating in the other direction. Whatever issues I had before snuck up again, only this time they could not be appeased with a strict sense of control and deprivation. This time they had to be fed... literally. I could not eat enough. All the things I had deemed BAD and EVIL and FATTENING for the last three years were now nothing but sheer happiness and joy and love and friendship and freedom. And I ate and I ate and I ate. And I grew fatter and fatter and fatter. And my self esteem went down, down, down. But I drowned my lack of self worth with more food.

I dated a guy we'll call "Pencil Dick". He was a total loser and I dated him because he was there and because he wanted me. How very, very sad. He was the horniest, most preverted guy I've ever met. And he had loads of issues, no pun intended. I finally wised up after meeting another guy and cut "Pencil Dick" loose. He called about 6 weeks later to say he missed me and wanted me back. (smirk, smirk)

So I had met D. We hooked up the first night we met, at a party... he was a few years younger, cute as hell and funny, too. He was also a great 'i'm-drunk-let's-do-it-on-the-bathroom-floor' lay. I thought, 'what the hell'. I tried to be the cool and casual "we just had sex but I am going to leave you alone and act like I don't want your number' girl, and honestly I didn't care if I ever saw him again. But he wanted my number. And when we saw each other at another party a few weeks later, we somehow became attached at the hip. He needed a place to stay... I snuck him into my mom's house to sleep. Which turned into his permanent residence for about 6 long and horrible months of us sleeping on the cold tile floor. He had horrible credit... I had good enough credit to get us both cell phones and eventually an apartment. He needed a car, and so did I... I bought a car he LOVED, even though I did not know how to drive it at the time. I felt bad for him. I did his laundry. I cooked his meals. I helped him build a life, and he helped me. Partly because I felt bad for him. Partly because I was FAT and INSECURE and thought any man that was with me deserved this kind of royal treatment. So when I lost weight and suddenly saw myself as PRETTY, sometimes even HOT... things changed. I did his laundry less. I didn't cook for him as much. Mostly, I didn't put up with any shit. And he gave me shit in the beginning. But back then I blamed it on his bad upbringing and lack of love and need for attention. He hurt me. I forgave him. But I never forgot.

Things got better. Wonderful, even. We both got good jobs, we both had nice cars, nice things, a cute dog (the cutest in the WORLD, to be precise). We were making our way and doing really, really well. Especially considering where we had come from less than 2 years ago.

Fast forward to now: Me, 25. Him, 22. I am 4 months pregnant. We have been engaged for nearly 2 years now. I am freaking out. The wedding is in less than 3 months. I need things from him that he seems unable to give and/or uninterested in giving. But he is young. I cook. Clean. Do laundry. Take care of our dog. And am PREGNANT, which is as tiring as 5 full time jobs rolled into 1. And I work full time. HE works full time. And it is hard work, being on your feet and outdoors for most of the day. I give him that. I APPRECIATE that. But? I am scared that if I'm not getting all the support and responsibility I need from him NOW, when I'm at my most vulnerable and needy, will I EVER? I ask you: Is this partly because he's younger? Is that a reason/excuse? Is it partly because I am a fucking insane and crazy PREGNANT woman? I think that both are likely to be right on to some degree. But the main thing is that lately, I've discovered what I need from a man. From a life partner. LIFE partner. And I am scared to marry someone who has, yes, come a LONG way, but at the same time he has not given me everything I need. Hasn't shown me everything I need to see. I am torn. Sometimes I am peaceful and calm. More often than not I am fidgety and aggitated and scared and confused and really I just want my mommy to tell me what to do. I am a nervous wreck. Our child and our sanity is at stake.


Things I Love...

Things I Love...

1/ Freaking hot juicy fried chicken and biscuits. Sweet Geeezus!
2/ The new orange-mint flavor of Orbit gum.
3/ Fridays. Yeah. Obvious, I know.
4/ Oatmeal. I've recently rediscovered it's hot mushy goodness.
5/ Being pregnant. Seriously! Love the lil' baby in my belly!
6/ Stripsearch. On Vh1. I LOVE that show. Mmm.
7/ Being hungry. So I can eat fried chicken. And blame it on # 5. Sweet.
8/ Saturdays. Another obvious choice.
9/ SLEEP. Sleep, sleep, and then even MORE sleep.
10/ Pregnancy dreams. Vivid. Sexy. Waking up to an orgasm, anyone?

Things I Like Not So Much:

1/ Bad breath. Have some orange-mint Orbit, please.
2/ Cold fried chicken. Ick.
3/ Realizing that most of the items on my love list are food related.
4/ Realizing I can blame # 3 on being pregnant, again!
5/ Paris Blues maternity jeans. Heaven. Thank you, PB!
6/ Traffic. What's a turn signal, you ask?
7/ HEAT. More specifically, TEXAS HEAT.
8/ Being pregnant in the Texas HEAT. I sprout devil horns in this weather.
9/ My hair in the said Texas HEAT. I look like a troll.
10/ Being pregnant in the Texas heat with troll hair while eating cold fried chicken. Enough said.

Friday, Oh YEAH...

That about sums it up. Friday = wonderful freedom to do whatEVERthefuck you want, to engage in as much SWEET SWEET sleep as you'd like, to eat whatever whenever, to do NOTHING AT ALL if one so desires. And maybe to do some of the chores and other boring crap that piles up during the week. Who set up the work week again? WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?

I just ate a southwestern chicken salad from Jack in the Box. Then stopped and got a medium vanilla moolatte from DQ.... then came back to work and ate 2 slices of cold vegetable pizza. Now? This EAS protein bar is mocking me. (SILENCE, oh chalky fake chocolate protein bar! I WILL eat you). WTF?!?!? Um, hey, baby in womb? STOP EATING. Mama can't afford BIGGER pants, nor does she want to have to go BUY bigger pants. Thanks. Nighty night.

Yeah, fiance lost his job. Last Friday. Sucks. Bullshit. Where did it all go wrong? How do I fill this hopeless pit in my soul? No, no..... not with liquor or beer or drugs. Not for another 6 months, at least. Heh.

Is there anyone out there, anyway? I read SO MANY blogs every day, and though I'm not "hip" to how the whole blog world works, and I DO realize that I've got a joe-shmoe ho hum FREE blog of probably little interest to most people, I DO still wonder if I've got any regular readers. No? Yeah, that's what I thought. Heh.

I'm all about pregnancy and sore boobs and eating and sleeping and being as bitchy as possible to my fiance, then being sickeningly happy for two and a half minutes and in the blink of an eye morphing into a psycho super turbo ultra bitch who just wants some taco bell and a tums.

Life at 25. Ever so sweet.

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