I just cut up some frozen jalepeno’s, poblano’s and green peppers from last year’s garden.
Then I rubbed my nose.
Edit: I have to say the vajayjay glitter tattoo misadventure was a gazillion times worse. Gazillion. Times. Worse.
Lucy The Pug: Are you going to the bathroom? Wait for me! I’m coming too!
Me: You know, Luce, 99% of the time you always go with us on trips. Just because you had to stay at home last weekend doesn’t equal following me into the bathroom every time I have to pee.
Lucy The Pug: There are two doors into the potty. You could sneak out the other door and go to Vegas or something.
Me: Or something.
Lucy The Pug: I had a sitter! A sitter! Next it will be boarding school. I’ll be a foster pug. Summer camp! You’re sending me to summer camp, aren’t you!
Me: Ah, yeah. Camp Pugswhinesalot.
Lucy The Pug: I’d rather go to Camp Pugpeeinyourslippers. I might go there tonight!
The pins in my right leg are killin’ me.
Must be a storm coming.
I announced this to my gf, who said “Yeah, an IRS storm. Do your fucking taxes.”
I get no sympathy.
Note to self: No matter how hystericaly funny it seems at the time - do NOT let your fab, tequila soaked girlfriend apply adorable kiddie glitter temp tattoo’s to your hoohah. (no carpet, I’m hardwood all the way babeee)
Glitter in your vagina is so not a good thing.
Not. A. Good. Thing.