“YOU CAN’T SAY THOSE WORDS IN THIS HOUSE!” My father screamed. He stormed into the living room, where I had set myself up with a blanket on the floor. My mother stepped in, eager to defend me. “She’s not saying SHIT, Charlie! She’s saying CHIT, like a squirrel!”

But my father would have none of it. He was enraged that I had dared to defile his house with my prepubescent profanity and I would therefore have to be punished.

It was a long time before I would be able to read aloud again.

I do not get sick. Taking a tip from Barney Stinson, when I feel myself getting sick, I just be awesome instead. Apparently my body didn’t pick up what my brain was putting down, because it sort of feels like I’ve got fistfuls of cotton balls rammed into my chest and someone took a Bic …

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Work has overtaken my life, hence my lack of posts over the last little while. Believe me, it’s not because I don’t adore the folks who have chosen to follow this little blog, because I love the shit out of each and every one of you (in an intense and potentially carnal manner). It’s work. …

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