So we can’t smoke on a patio as of Friday
but, are a country famed for it’s violence, unemployment and overloaded health system?
(although, I absolutely agree with the ‘no smoking when kids in car’ and ‘no kids in smoking section of restaurant’ rules)
Priorities, government. Priorities.
i do promise i’m here. really. really. really.
truth is, though, my head is spinning. with questions. when did i get so responsible?
when did i, the world’s greatest slacker and inventor of compulsory Ferris (TM) days, become so driven?
and then, then i realised it wasn’t really my fault. i had to grow up sometime.
but, don’t…don’t think for a second that i’m sitting here typing this, barking orders off and swishing my hair around whilst i scroll through my itinerary for my next trip/meeting/brainstorm…don’t think this isn’t cath sitting here.
it is. how do i know? well, it’s simple. i’m doing all those things whilst wearing my pyjama top still, my hair is still not blowdried and i am pretty sure i just accidentally poured my tea into my top drawer 
some days it’s good to be me. some days it’s not so great. in fact, sometimes it makes me darn bleak that nearly 30 years are now behind me and i still haven’t quite proven myself to myself yet.
but, then, i kinda have. all i really ever expected of myself was to live through it. and fuck me, i do a pretty darn freaking good job, on the whole.
and i am. i’m living through it. thriving on it. running on it. breathing. kicking ass and taking names. and hugging someone who needed it today.
i’ve sat with that dichotomy for too long. never being able to apparently, adequately explain myself. Why I am a fiery rage of Aunt Irma one moment, and then a puppy dog in cuddle mode, the next.
The truth is, with Cath, there are no grey areas. Is that so hard to explain? Maybe for you, it is. The truth is, if it looks like there’s a grey area, it’s because i really don’t want you in it. Get that? Respect that? cool.
Sorry, I know I’m ranting and that probably makes no sense to anyone reading this. Well, maybe it does..who knows.
Your inability to deal with my no bullshit is directly proportionate to the amount of bullshit you spill forward every day. Your bullshit that has no element of care or support in it. Your bullshit that seeks to deify yourself and only to plunder alot of, shall I say, stuff, into things that just do not matter.
Seriously, sir, take a look at the big picture. I realise that’s hard when you’re wearing blinkers. I realise that’s even harder when you bolted them on yourself.
The big picture is, i’m sorry to say, not your face. So, when being humble is so hard for you, that’s okay. I understand you may have an elevated opinion of yourself. I will not understand it when you refuse to let anyone get past you without somehow worshipping you.
There are far more worthy people within five minutes of me that I can honour, and I do.
So, I’m sorry if you don’t agree. I don’t really care.
Again, I’m sorry if you don’t see the bigger picture. Take your blinkers off, get bigger glasses, stop winding yourself up in red tape and do not even for a second, think that I’ll do it for you. I was not made to untangle other people from the bullshit they themselves created.
I was not created to take responsibility for your very own issues.
I was not created to be a puppet to your strings laced with greed.
I was not created to jump like a poor horse on show.
I was created to be a mother, be here, be me.
I don’t care if you have a problem with that.
It doesn’t stop me from being Cath.
Noone will ever stop me from being Cath.
Some have tried, have no doubt.
None have succeeded for long.
I will never apologise for me.
Don’t demand it and stamp your shiny-shod foot like a petulant brat.
The only reaction you’ll get from me is a skippy walking away.
My feet may be small but they are more than capable of standing on their own.
Dear Spam mailers, text message spammers, spam comment posters and flipping telesales marketers…
quite simply. Bugger off.
I do NOT want your Viagra, porn links (on both counts, I lack the required equipment), alleged lottery winnings, out of the blue inheritances from people I have never known, and/or free trip to the Bahamas. More over, if I want a funeral plan, I’ll call you up. Also, don’t try and sell me credit cards – I do not think it’s a good idea. And no thanks on the new cellphone contract, I have one. And oh, for the dude who phoned me to tell me he could totally swing me a better rate on my bond… do your research, oke. I am not a homeowner and don’t intend to be any time soon.
As for the woman who has phoned me no less than twelve times to offer me insurance for my trailer (yes! seriously!), I will tell you now, lady, I don’t own a freaking trailer.
And don’t, for the love of all that is holy and wonderful, tell me I have been SPECIALLY SELECTED FOR THIS AMAZING OFFER. You’re lying. I know you’re lying. Stop lying. I was not specially freaking selected. I just happened to be the next person on your call-list. I know this because you’re clearly working through the alphabet. I have a relatively small group of the people with the same surname as me, and yes, some of us are actually related, or aren’t but we still know each other and no, we weren’t just a freaking lucky family to both be specially selected, we just happen to fall alphabetically under each other on your freaking call list. Special selection, my bumbum. More like selection via spelling.
But, most of all, to the dude who tried to sell me a newspaper subscription and would not let me get off the telephone…who told me that if i subscribed, I could have access to all the articles online too…and I responded ‘dude, I’d rather save trees and read my news online, thanks…and who, in his clear desperation to attract my attention towards his special offer said…but madam, trees are less important than being up to date with the news…and I said ‘dude, nothing’s more up to date than twitter…
To you, sir, I say …don’t ever call me madam…
It’s been a Monday. I just need to offload. It’s been a swirl of a day. I just need to say it and move on.
I am bitter because no matter how hard you work, you dont really ever feel like you’re at the end of it. but, im thankful for the work to do.
I am bitter because i want to do better, be perfect. But i never have the time to be perfect. I only ever have the time to do a million things at once and hope like hell I got it right. sure, most of the time I do, but there’s only so many times i can pull the same rabbit out of my hat. The bunny gets tired too, you know. but, i’m thankful i’m good with bunnies.
i am bitter about time. i want to give my daughter more of mine, and less of having to juggle everything. but, i’m thankful she loves doing things with me, and already knows that helping in her own way, helps me more than she knows.
i am bitter about the idea that i spend most of my day doing something to help. And yet, every day, I face a myriad of people who just dont care. but, im thankful for the one person who does care.
i am bitter about the fact that its not about us vs them. its about you. nobody seems to ever get that. so, yes, take things personally. but, dont expect me to take it for you.
i am bitter about the fact that every day, my daughter walks into the house and sighs with relief that our life has not been ransacked again. Every day, we walk in and she runs to the lounge and proudly tells me that everything is where we left it. I’m bitter she feels the need to do that, just to feel safe. but, im thankful we have our life in one piece today.
i am bitter that every night, if i hear something, its me that has to get up and check. i’m not brave, people, i just do what has to be done. but, i’m thankful for my emergency phone call list.
i am bitter that i have to exchange jars for squeezy tube type condiments. i cant open jars. dont have the arm strength, and the knife trick doesn’t always work. but, i’m thankful that i have the choice between tubes and jars.
i am bitter that you never, ever feel the need to take an interest. i spend what seems like my life trying to keep you involved. because i believe, and know, that its for the best. yet, never once, have you ever just been grateful. but, im thankful for my perseverance to do it anyway.
i am bitter that i’ve had to make choices with consequences that lead to me sacrificing myself. i know its for good. i know there was no other choice to make. but some days, those choices are everpresent, and i cannot escape the fact that you failed. And I failed. I failed because I believed in you in the first place. Even when you did not want to, but needed me to. but, im thankful that i realised the failure when i did. heaven knows where i’d be today, if i had not made those choices.
i am bitter that everything i ever did, you flung conditions on. but, i am so thankful that i finally flung them back at you.
i am bitter that the only person to wake me up on my birthday for the last seven years, has been my daughter. and she’s only been around for four of them. but, im thankful for eternity and a day that she’s here.
i am bitter that i always make the effort. and you find me annoying for doing so. but, i’m thankful for being able to still believe i’m doing the right thing, whether you like it or not.
i am bitter that in one year, i developed wrinkles i didn’t ever worry about having. now that i have them, i realise i’m much older in my heart than i ever wanted to be. but, i’m thankful for the experience, because my word, i have a beautiful life just because it exists.
i am bitter that my naivete got jolted out of me. i’d love an innocent experience again. not one marred by cynicism or jadedness. but, im thankful i have a child’s eyes to help me do that once again.
i am bitter that i never really got the chance to be the person i wanted to be. but, im thankful that i still have the opportunity to be the person i am meant to be today.
i am bitter you broke that plate. but, i’m so thankful it was the first thing that told me i needed to get you out.
i am bitter that my daughter does not want to do a particular extra mural activity. but, i am thankful that i know why and that i know her so well, that i know she’ll tell me when she’s ready to.
i am bitter that i still shudder behind the wheel of a car. but, im thankful that you said that when you did, it made my then-complex life seem so much clearer to me.
i am bitter that i don’t always trust my first instinct, because you told me to listen to you rather. but, im thankful i know the difference between right and wrong for myself. what you feel for yourself is up to you.
i am bitter that three of our fish died because i couldn’t be here for that time. but, im thankful that they were loved when they were with us.
i am bitter that when i told you that happy news, that was just for me, you fobbed me off and made me feel unimportant. but, im thankful that i had that happy news, just for me.
i am bitter that i was blessed with a heart big enough to be hurt so hugely. but, i am thankful for every space within it filled with people worthy enough to feel it.
i am bitter that i get the raw end of the deal. but, i am thankful that i have genius ways of making that raw end rock.
i am bitter that i have everything in my life i have ever wanted, but at the end of the day, i look over at the other end of the couch and there’s noone there to tell.
i am bitter you left. but, i’m thankful you were here at all.
i am bitter that you never truly listen to me when i need you to but, demand my immediate attention at any time. but, i’m thankful you trust me enough.
i am bitter you leave me with no answers. but, i’m thankful i had the courage to ask.
i am bitter that i have to work so hard at everything. but, i’m thankful for the knowledge that it is worth it.
i am bitter towards the assumptions that you make. but, i’m thankful i can counter them with fact.
i am bitter that you lied and twisted my words and never apologised. but, i’m thankful i can forgive you.
i am bitter that the people we need the most, are taken from us too soon. but, i’m thankful they existed at all.
i am bitter that i sit here wondering who will assume what from reading this, and ponder who i am talking about. but, i’m thankful that i can write it.
i am bitter you weren’t willing to even try to understand me. but, i’m thankful that i can understand myself.
i am bitter that i had to give up what i loved, to do what needed to be done. but, i’m thankful i can still do it.
i am bitter that i can never look at a rainbow, and not be reminded of you. but, i’m thankful that i can still see them. they are glorious, even with your memory scratching away at them.
i am bitter that you think i helped you become the person you needed to be, yet you left to be that person for someone else. but, i’m thankful you helped me become the person i needed to be.
i am bitter that you slanted me off as a slow learner. but, i’m thankful that i learn at all.
i am bitter that you feel that you have the right to question me. but, i’m thankful i know how to ignore you.
i am bitter that this post is ending. but, i’m thankful i got this off my chest.
Right. Here’s my irk. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?
Here we go..
There’s this illusion that we human beings have. It’s about windows. No matter where your bathroom is situated – on the ground floor, around the corner, down the bend, or even sixty storeys up where nobody, barring possible aeroplane travellers or overzealous skydivers could peek in…
the bathroom windows are always frosted.
It’s like, we have this subconscious need to believe that noone can see us “doing our business”, when, in fact, most of the time, you’re sitting down anyway, dudes. Unless someone actually opens the window, and climbs halfway in, they’re really NOT going to see you popping a squat.
And then, to make it even more dumb… have you noticed that just about every bathroom has curtains, or at least a curtain rail waiting for you to hang some little lettie lace curtains on it ?
WHAT THE FUCK FOR? Are you sleeping in there? Is the frosted glass not enough for you people? Do you really think there’s a swarm of peeping toms and johns sixty feet up in the sky just clamouring to have a look-see at your poop-see?
I mean, come the fuck on.
So, here’s the thing…
My house faces onto a road. Large, gorgeous windows that offer us a view of the road, some lovely greenery, our garden and an abundance of morons who think that its a racetrack at 2am. Likewise, people walking past can get a small view of the orange and the red. I’m okay with that. Most of the time, the curtains are closed anyway.
On the other side, our windows open out on to the part of the garden that Cam has proclaimed “her land”. It’s a lovely view, all round, really.
But, and here’s my irk…
Why the bloody hell are my kitchen windows frosted then? They open out on to the garden which is only ever inhabited by me, Cam, my neighour’s son’s cricket ball and approximately six hundred and seventy two hungry mosquitoes.
I mean, think about it. Why the hell would they be frosted? Do people build homes thinking “ooh must frost the kitchen windows, darling…wouldnt want the neighbours sneaking a peek at my secret recipe for bobotie stir fry!”
Or, worse. Are they frosted because alot of people spend alot of time nude in their kitchens? Are people ‘doing their business’ in their kitchens? Is this common? Have I got it all wrong and if so, how do I aim for the sink?
If I were thinking logically, I’d think that bedroom windows should be frosted. I mean, you don’t really want old Jim from up the road spying on you while you’re sleeping right? But, nooo… we’ve got old frosty mcfrosty in the kitchen just in case someone sees us frying up an egg, and frosty mcfrosty in the bathroom, way above our heads, just in case someone tries to see what colour tiles we have.
Think about it. Seriously. What’s the deal with frosted fucking windows? On that note, please, go look at your own kitchen windows.
p.s. an aside. i have just realised i have a lot of issues with bathroom windows. Any sibling of mine will be laughing reading this, and Will is crying with laughter about the night I accidentally inserted a bathroom window into my arm. please note that the above rant is in no way related to my clearly subconscious and possibly-requiring-therapy-for-unexplained-latent-anger issues with bathroom windows.
There’s a few things that bug me.
Okay, I lie, there’s more than a few things… But, my pet peeve for the day…
Is the lunch-mongerer.
Who’s the lunch-mongerer, you ask?
The lunch-mongerer is that person in your office who’s always inquisitive about what you’re putting into your belly.
They’re always the first one in the queue at the staff buffet, and hey, they’re always hogging the microwave come feeding time.
They’re the coffee slurpers and the popcorn chewers.
I’ve had a litany of those in my sometimes awkward, currently awesome career.
They’re the ones who’s first thought is to whether or not every birthday or flipping every email sent should be celebrated with cake and tea, and incidentally, they’re also the ones who spend their days flapping their arms about banal things.
If there’s drama, they’re in on it.
If there’s gossip, they’re crowding around the source and chucking in their whole fifty cents, and you can keep the two cents for change.
They’re the ones who are always tired, always stressed, yet produce the least work.
Making coffee is a task they attack slowly, and with dread… “surely we can get a tealady!?” they inquire.
Anyway, thats besides my point.
The fact is..they’re lunch-mongerers.
They want to know what you’re eating, how you’re eating it, when you’re eating it and whether or not it’ll take you one or two and half bowel movements to digest it.
Weirdly, they’re also the ones always, always on a diet.
I’ve had two in this job.
The first one was unparalelled, or so I thought.
I used to bring lunch in, in an effort to save cash, every day.
Also, I’m not the type with the time or the cash for lunches in restaurants every day so, it’s usually me masticating behind my monitor.
Without fail, I’d find her, every day, scratching around the fridge, trying to figure out what weird and wonderful concoction I’d chucked in a little Addis box for lunch.
She had finger-dipping skills of excellence.
She could scoop a phalange into my hummus faster than a speeding chickpea, and dig an index into my sarmie quicker than a lettuce on the run.
And heaven forbid if I had to do the walk of shame past her desk, en route from kitchen to my office, with lunch on my plate…
She’d bolt up, race across and enquire
“mmm, that looks nice. what is it?”
It put me off my food every time.
Sometimes, it would be worse…
“ooh, did you make that yourself?”
(no, fucknut, it fell out of the sky)
or
“can i have some? is it some of that weird food you like?”
(yeah, totally. lemme just chuck it at your face and you can see how weird it is)
She’d order in, daily.
Frosted wafts of dead animal would always meander down the passageway towards my desk.
Great when I was pregnant and nauseated enough, trust me.
Then she’d chew. Loudly.
Usually whilst phoning six hundred and eighty two of her closest friends to talk.
Funny enough, they’d always be talking about lunch.
She left, I moved offices, life was grand for a while.
I should have known another would come and my days of eating my lunch at my desk in peace, sans sound effects, would be gone.
And one day, last year, lunch-mongererer version 2.0 stepped into our office.
Flapping their arms and waving their ego in the air, they took up a little seat and started.
Soon enough, a sideways trip to my desk meant they met me.
And my lunch.
He said:
“ooh what is that? did you make it yourself?”
(no, dumbwit, didn’t you see my personal chef in here with his wok about a minute ago?)
I knew then. The lunch-mongerer was back.
So, life carried on, I started eating behind closed doors and then one day…
I had to do the walk of shame past his desk…
“ooh that looks niiice. what is it? did you make it yourself? did Cam have some too? is it leftovers? do you cook every night? do you use recipes? my mom always uses recipes…do you have good ones? you should make that for the next office lunch. what’s in it? does it give you indigestion? you must be careful with your intestine you know, mine is very upset right now, i spent half of last night on the toilet!”
(oh fuck me sideways with a spork. it’s back. and it’s worse!)
So, I decided, after realising that the lunch-mongerer was a flipping mongrel begging at the table for scraps of anything that could make them feel like they knew everything, and that clearly i had an avid almost fanatic interest in their poopchute-age, to eat in secret again.
So, now, every day, I time myself.
I time his ups and downs from his desk, and when he’s engaged in a terribly long, terribly important, VERY LOUD, phonecall…
I make my move.
Stealthily, I slink along the passageway, quietly open the fridge and frenetically whip up whatever it is I need to, or forage for.
The walk back is always the test though.
Just to escape the barrage of bullshit about lunch, I must walk sideways, in some way hide my plate and mince back into my office.
Success.
I make it most days okay.
And then hide behind my monitor, door closed, eating as fast as I can before he knocks and enquires…
“BUT CATH WHY’S YOUR DOOR CLOSED? ARE YOU BUSY?”
(no, fucktard, i’m masturbating to goat porn* during office hours, what the fuck do you think?!)
(*please note stalker types and assumption-creators – i do not, under any circumstances, masturbate to goat porn at any time. this is in fact, a joke).
It’s common, when one feels hurt, in any way, to try to pick apart things that have hurt you in the past.
This is not directed, at all, to my current hurt. At all.
This bubbled up out of me this afternoon whilst I was still trying to get my head around an annoying, yet distracting, spreadsheet.
Someone’s face cropped into my head when I read a word, and it just bubbled up from there.
I didn’t expect it, edit it or garnish it. It just seemed that every sting in my arm decided to write itself down today.
It’s not necessarily directed at romantic attachments but, mostly just at people I, and people who are close to me, have come across in life.
Some of it’s juvenile, some of it not. Nobody reading this should take personal offence, I think (unless one of you are reading it, in which case, piss off stalker-type).
This is probably the stuff I wish I could have said at the time these things happened. Hindsight, it’s twenty/twenty.
I warn you, it’s angry. I’m not angry, I think. I think I’m just smarting. I am allowed.
You, you with the fucking arrogant, incomprehensible self-righteousness. Don’t judge what you say you love, because it proves you don’t love it.
You were the strangest man with the quietest words but, you were a user and the thing you detest the most – a fake. Borrowed attitude, indeed. You even stole that title.
you were content to think that I would let you get away with being a knobhead, to someone so utterly dear to me. you were so very, very wrong. I think you know that now.
I can’t even remember a reason why I wanted to get to know you in the first place.
You met me at a very strange time in my life. You, similarly, left me at a very strange time in my life.
You spent a lot of time badmouthing her, fuck, you even formed a club about it. Once, you started a pathetic facebook group. Did you really think I’d take you seriously that night on the stairs?
Do you even know who you are?
When I hear about your apathy now, it shocks me. You did everything in your power and within your very gay, blow-dried hair, to get that which you wanted, and were pissed off when you realised you could not tame it. You cannot kill what you did not create.
You married the girl who went out of her way to destroy you. You’re pathetic, and you never stood up for yourself once. Oh and by the way, you got fat. I’d never have said it but you said it to me first. I was pregnant at that time, you allegedly small-willied wanker.
Hah. You. You little fucknut. I’m so glad you got left behind by everyone. You cried alot. How’d that make YOU feel? And no, don’t call her. She’s not listening anymore.
Trying to prove yourself to me ten years later was way.too.late. Trying to prove yourself to me by wheel-spinning in a parking lot was so.very.lame.
You’re a whore. Stop pretending you’re not. Nobody believes that you’re saving yourself for marriage after the third kid.
Your breath, it smells. Yes, still.
Just when you thought you could have something, it ran from you. Why? Because you really should know, much like yourself, people don’t respond well to being told what to do, how to do it, and that they owe it to you.
So, you leave her, after a year of needing help to do so. Of needing to hear reason, of being enabled to be liberated. Then you dump me. On my birthday. Then you’re marrying her. On my birthday. It’s very lucky that we worked through that. I’m just saying.
The time you said that I had nothing without you, was the same day you made me determined to be everything, all at once. I can only thank you for that.
Pretending to care is the same as sucking your own cock. It’s cool if you can do it, but really, you’re just gonna end up having to applaud yourself, by yourself.
You used absolutely every rung of that ladder to get to the places you felt you had a right to, and then considered those steps inconvenient. I know where you got that from. It’s genetic.
Life is a pretty fucked up institution and you truly belong in a different ward.
When your wife phones you, pick up the phone.
It’s weird. I can’t even have anger towards you.
May your karma run over your dogma. And then reverse and try again. Shove that in your idealism pipe.
When you smack someone in the face, have the courage to admit to it. Don’t blame them for your own indiscretion and inability to control yourself.
Nobody has power over you unless you let them. Don’t go blaming them when you find a fault in your self-created tapestry.
When you tell someone they can everything they want, dont’ go being conditional about it. Because it’ll show that you’re a liar.
The greatest sadness of your life is that I would not heal you. The greatest sadness of my life is that I could not heal you when it your job to do that yourself. Even if you don’t want it. Nobody’s going to pay you, except you.
you are inconvenient and unkind. So, really, don’t expect anyone to treat you any differently.
You. Are.A. Psycho. proceed directly to the nearest hospital, and ask them to check you in. Be nice to the receptionist. It’ll help. In fact, start being nice to everyone, fast. Because you never know when next you’ll have to see them.
I have to forgive me to forgive you. But, I find I am not sorry at all. I already know you are not.
I don’t get this angry often. When you hurt someone I love though, I get this angry. Apologies. I need to vent it and move on.
Dear Mr *for the sake of my friend I won’t write your surname here*
You, dear sir, are a fat fucking cunt.
I hope you fucking falls over your desk, trip on your teeny tiny penus and it falls off . When you pick it up, I hope you inadvertedly stab yourself in the eye.
And then, I hope your packed lunch from your mother falls off your desk and onto you. And then, that you cry because your without member and your precious cheese and ham sandwiches are now squished. Dang, and your loving mama had cut them into the little fucking triangles you love so much.
I believed in you once, for her. I hated you when you dissed her. I believed in you again when she asked me to. And now, of course, you have failed her. Go to hell.
In the words of the immortal fucktard, Bob… Straight Up, Fuck You.
apologies. i am currently unavailable for blogging. this is due to:
1. work overload (this is because I actually work for a living, and don’t just fanny around the countryside with a head full of ideas. i have a real job that makes a real difference, do you?)
2. the fact that i am pretty pissed off with the human race right now (just for clarity, this is not directed at anyone in particular but in fact at just about anyone who would consider themselves an adult)
3. i just don’t have the juice to do it right now.
I’ll leave you with these three words though for you to mull over, assume crap of, and whine about, that came out of my mouth on Tuesday night when Sheena asked me:
If you were about to die, what would your last message to the world be?
My answer?
Catch you on the flipside darlings.
SOTD: Human Nature – Madonna (and if you want to know why it’s keeping me sane right now, JFGI).
p.s. for those of you in the know the Shath Vlog will be edited this weekend. Be warned, there are no sacred cows and no, there is no scisorring either waha.
1. every time i look at pictures of you and your husband, i vomit. Does he own anything but dirty vests and fugly shoes? seriously. you are worth more. im sorry, i know im a bitch, but i always thought it was you that had the star. the star that elevated you above all of us. am i so bad for thinking, you could’ve done better… It’s less than ideal and I can see the pain on your face.
2. Do you honestly believe that your snipy snipe little sucky uppy is going to get you any kudos from me? mmm. Maybe you didn’t get the memo. I don’t care what your whiney arse opinion is, because you can’t back it up.
3. Don’t attempt to show me up. You will fail. Sadly, you did it to yourself. Seriously. You should know by now that if you’re going to find fault with someone’s spelling, please make sure you know how to spell. I’m just saying.
4. Yes, that is correct. I am sat here before you because I think something might be amiss. No, I’m not being paranoid. Yes, I know you’re swallowing your words five minutes later. Yes, you are lucky I managed not to smack you across the room.
5. I really don’t give a fuck what you think about my knee-highs. I am not the one waddling around in a two-piece made from old carpet.
Why is it that most of my rants can be summed up with the phrase “before you judge, judge yourself?”
…and im spent…
Boxing Gloves and Chanting. Roll on weekend.
