3rd level of hell
three days ago I moved my heavy stuff, then I had to fight with my illogical mother over the game plan on moving her stuff, even though I rented the truck, did the driving, and was moving all her crap.
Seriously, some times I think she gave birth to me so she'd have someone to torture. So instead of doing the logical thing and move all the stuff in storage, I just did appliances.
Second Day or should I say after two hours sleep I get a call from work, twice, waking my ass up out of my happy slumber telling me the fecal matter is flying towards the wind chime and I get to be the guy behind it. DONG
my mother realised my logic 3 hours later when I got over there and decided to go with it, unfortunately my energy level was slowly starting to wane and being the only person moving the crap under 60 I became pack mule for the packrats and their crap.
I managed to slither my way back to my apartment and pass out drunk shortly after finishing my laundry.
Day three, work hates me and has decided to punish me with the anal pear, you know that medieval torture device that you unscrew to make your orifice bigger, bone and all.
I got in early, got off around 10pm, my eyes are glazed over and I think I remember a little dog tearing at my pecker, a fat clown spreading belly button cheese on my toast, and a crazy ass doctor testing my joints to see if they could go in directions they shouldn't normally go.
After the last three days I better get my MFin' cream filling tommorow, otherwise I'm buying a hatchet and some duct tape and I ain't a stoppin' until your dog, your mother, and your first born are books, then I'm gonna use you to tell bed time stories to the cherry tree outside.
equivalent trade right? look at all their kids you cut up and used to whipe your ass with.
three days ago I moved my heavy stuff, then I had to fight with my illogical mother over the game plan on moving her stuff, even though I rented the truck, did the driving, and was moving all her crap.
Seriously, some times I think she gave birth to me so she'd have someone to torture. So instead of doing the logical thing and move all the stuff in storage, I just did appliances.
Second Day or should I say after two hours sleep I get a call from work, twice, waking my ass up out of my happy slumber telling me the fecal matter is flying towards the wind chime and I get to be the guy behind it. DONG
my mother realised my logic 3 hours later when I got over there and decided to go with it, unfortunately my energy level was slowly starting to wane and being the only person moving the crap under 60 I became pack mule for the packrats and their crap.
I managed to slither my way back to my apartment and pass out drunk shortly after finishing my laundry.
Day three, work hates me and has decided to punish me with the anal pear, you know that medieval torture device that you unscrew to make your orifice bigger, bone and all.
I got in early, got off around 10pm, my eyes are glazed over and I think I remember a little dog tearing at my pecker, a fat clown spreading belly button cheese on my toast, and a crazy ass doctor testing my joints to see if they could go in directions they shouldn't normally go.
After the last three days I better get my MFin' cream filling tommorow, otherwise I'm buying a hatchet and some duct tape and I ain't a stoppin' until your dog, your mother, and your first born are books, then I'm gonna use you to tell bed time stories to the cherry tree outside.
equivalent trade right? look at all their kids you cut up and used to whipe your ass with.