Today was a grand day (I’m resurrecting grand as a hip superlative. Learn it.). First, Dyanna treated me to ice cream and waffles at Oh Yeah, a delightfully grand establishment that offers over 100 ice cream and waffle mix-ins. EVEN LOVE AND MAGIC. It is unfortunate that places like this make me feel overwhelmed and panicked, like my ultimate decision will go on my life’s report card and be the deciding factor between an afternoon getting an angelic facial at God’s country club, or an evening getting nailed by Satan’s flaming thorn-studded dick. It was a matter that required my serious attention, clearly. And even though I kept eye-balling “habanera” and “Corn Pops,” I listened to the lovely dread-headed expert behind the counter and went with my gut: cashews and figs, which were blended up in a sweet cream base and paired with a vegan cinnamon waffle. It was the most amazing breakfast, with great company and good, tongue-searing coffee. I will be going there on the weekly. Dyanna already said I could.
Later, Blake came over and we finally had some fun with the gas mask I bought last fall. Everything was fine until Henry decided to smack Chooch in the face with the car door. Get used to it, Chooch. That’s how Daddy makes Mommy feel on the hourly – smashed in the face by something cold and steely. And it wouldn’t be so bad if it was at least some kind of Terminator dildo I’m talking about, and not a fistful of disdain.
How grand is my relationship with Henry?
Afterward, we went to Denny’s, where Blake taught Choochie No-Nap to shout “I’ll bury you!” to Henry.
It was a grand Sunday. Especially since Blake didn’t carve me with the rusty knives we found in a field.