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  • "I hate that nail polish."
    My ex-girlfriend said that to me today. Though really I don't really consider/call her that anymore. I introduce her as my friend Amy. The only people that know she is my ex are those that have known me for more then like ten years. I'm "best friends" with her and "good friends" with her boyfriend she's been with now for like five or six years. So yeah it really isn't weird. I borrowed her Dyson today. That was my wild Saturday.
    Anyway she went on.
    "You aren't some pink Hello Kitty whore, so don't wear that bullshit."
    I lifted my brows.
    "Well seriously Ess, when you talk, it isn't pink. You aren't some fru-fru bitch so don't try to sell it off like you are."
    "But Am, at work I am. They don't know the real me."
    "Yeah but you don't present 100% of your day on your nails to reflect what only 5% is."
    This is the weird shit we talk about when it isn't about taxes (She is an Asian accountant - I shit you not), or how we think people that don't know the difference between reality and Twilight/GameofThrones/WalkingDead/Etc/Etc should all be killed.

    You know the type.
    There is this woman at my work who isn't in my department - but I pass her cubicle everyday. The top of it is lined with stuffed unicorns. She wears faded grey sweatshirts with like pictures of wolves howling at the moon on them and jeans with elastic band tops and no back pockets. I imagine she probably reads a lot of fantasy books and pictures herself in some other world as a thin woman with long hair and can actually speak to wolves.
    In reality she just some mid-forties woman that eats a lot of shitty food (Which she expels in the bathroom like clockwork when I am in their just trying to take a piss) and works in a cubicle lined with stuffed animals.
    I was thinking about someday walking up to her cube and one by one drop kicking the stuffed animals away from it while blankly staring at her. I bet she would be so confused she wouldn't even try to stop me.
    Or she'd start crying as I slowly shattered her dream world one unicorn at a time.
    I would never make it through straight faced. I'd just start laughing so hard I'd pee a little, which would make me laugh more.

    I got home from Amy's and took off the pink nail polish. Collected all my bottles of different shades of pink and put them in the communal collection.


    Here is a grandpa story.

    My grandma went on retreat. It wasn't the type where you go into the woods and be alone with God but rather it seemed like it was more a social gather of women. I guess back then it was sort of a mix of God as well as quietly joking with each other about their husbands without any of them around. I bet funny things were said.

    So my grandma was on retreat and she got a package at the front desk from my grandpa. A big brown box from my grandpa. All the hens were aflutter and asking her what it was and saying how sweet it was.

    "I wish MY husband would think to send me a note even."

    My grandma wouldn't open the box though.
    "Come on Gloria! Don't you want to know what he sent you?
    "Nope, I already know what it is."
    "Well we don't! What is it?"
    "It's socks."

    And sure enough it was a box of socks. Clean socks. From their laundry. He hated sorting/folding socks.
    So he sent them to her.

    My family retells grandpa stories at almost every family gathering. He died when I was seven or something so I don't remember him that much. But I feel like I do because there are endless grandpa stories.

    I'll keep on adding some here. I need to write them all out anyway just in case the hundreds of retellings of them thus far don't stick.


    "I'm going to get you flowers."
    "Oh honey. Get me a plant or something. Flowers just die. Plus if you send them to my work then all the women are going to swarm my desk and ask me stupid questions."
    "Oh. No I think I'm going to get you flowers."
    "Plant honey, plant."

    Got to work one day and there was a box on my desk. Two dozen (I'm guessing here, I didn't count them but it was more than twelve so.. there we go) roses and a vase and a note.

    "Muh Chuisle
    I heard you love flowers a lot.
    ..That's what you said right?

    And like clockwork the women came on over. "Well who sent you those beautiful flowers?" "Seems you have an admirer!" "I wish MY husband sent me flowers!" "Someone special in your life?"

    He's special alright.

    One girl was like "ew". To be fair she is a lesbian with only like three teeth left and they are mostly black. A complete sweetheart though - seriously she is. She tried to come up with a good story for me to tell the other people. On the top of the list was 1.) It is the five year anniversary of me getting out of prison for that rape charge. 2.) A stalker that keeps sending me flowers that he says he'll also bury me with.

    My friend at work who knows me well enough to know about some of my personality quirks laughed and said "well I'd say he's working to get laid but you already got the plane ticket yeah?"
    "Yeah Paul."
    "Yeah if a girl got a plane ticket to come fuck me, I'd buy her flowers too. Plus I read your blog thing.. seems like he is already in."
    "Yeah Paul.. he doesn't gotta try anymore."

    Paul is awesome. He always has soup or something he heats up in this Ziploc container thing. I have joked about how I would actually just go to his desk if the zombies came. It has antacids and Tylenol and wrist wraps and other bottles of over the counter meds I haven't actually read the label of. For some reason I'm also assuming that his file drawers under his desk (that he keeps locked! Makes me so curious! What does a guy that wears wrist wraps and has two different stress balls on his desk keep locked away?) - wait this sentence got fucked up...
    Anyway. Paul is awesome.

    Back to the flowers.
    In the end - I kind of loved the flowers. Not the women asking me or whatever. I just liked looking at them. I liked that my desk smelled good and I liked looking at the note over and over.

    He knows me pretty damn well.
    That it would make me laugh and roll my eyes.. but secretly like it.

    ...he's learning all my secrets...


    My plan was to actually maybe write something about my nephews. My sister had a baby this past monday and I feel almost obliged to write about it. No wait. obliged is the wrong word. Like I should write about it. That anyone with heart would be so moved by the birth of a baby in the family.

    Don't get me wrong. He is awesome and little.
    But.. .eh.

    Most people write about all that shit. In their stories. Elsewhere.

    Here we are just kicking unicorns asses and thinking about locked filing cabinets.

    And of course you my honey.
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