When tweets have to be posted manually because LoudTwitter is too busy fucking corn cobs
Earth-shattering updates throughout the day, brought to you by Tart-Tits. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.
- 13:08 Thought we were still playing ‘pretend’ when Chooch gave me a cup & said “drink ur water!” Wasn’t expecting the splash; was refreshing tho.
- 15:31 Let’s all pretend like we’re dishwashers in a shit diner.
- 16:13 I had a homeroom teacher in HS who would always take my side, even when I was the one causing trouble. She died today.
- 16:48 My life needs less clever, more cleaver. (And no change of cleavage.)
- 23:35 Henry said I make him scared. He must have heard the snap.
- 23:43 Henry’s complaining that the scratches I gave him sting. LIKE MY HEART
- 01:23 Uh-oh.
- 10:49 Just sobbed to a Jehovah’s Witness. At noon, I’m cuddling with a Scientologist. 4pm is Draino time.
- 18:41 Looking to exchange recipes with a cannibal but the only one I knew ate himself.
- 20:50 Top a weener with a plastic blue cup & watch me sing Happy Birthday. It must be Tuesday
- 00:02 I hate a fucking swindler.
- 11:03 Chooch wants to wear a dress to his staple-removal appointment. I told him fine b/c it really complements his chocolate milk mustache.
- 12:13 I kept Chooch’s staples so that when he becomes infamous, which he will, I can sell them on eBay.
- 12:18 Dr’s office acquired a fine looking male nurse since the last time I was there, gave me a lollipop. Took the bait, will be back for more.
- 14:45 http://twitpic.com/8ygiy – I’m score.
- 16:12 My friend Lisa is visiting from Colorado & we have hang-outs scheduled for tonight. Hopefully Chooch won’t call her a motherfucker
- 01:17 Now that I think about it, I’m positive Lucas from Degrassi was the nurse holding Chooch’s head during the staple-plucking.
- 01:20 “‘Sore-y’ if this hurts, buddy, but we’ll have them all ‘oot’ faster than you can say Saskatchawan. Next episode, I date-rape ur mom, eh.”
- 01:40 Lisa brought me pie. I thanked her by using her as a therapist. By the end, we were both bloated, so it was an even trade.
Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter. Now you can rest easy, knowing my (sometimes incriminating) inner-most thoughts, actions and tampon-change. Please do not call the FBI.
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