Fam-i-ly (noun):

1. a group consisting of parents and children living in a household.

2. a freakin’ shit-show that abandons you at 17 and then starts to try and put their diseased lil fingers in your stew cause they’re bored or something.

I got those both from Webster’s, I swear.

If you’re too young to get this joke, I hatchu and LEAVE!

If you’re unfamiliar with November 15th, let me bring you up to speed. No, really, I insist. It’s the 319th day of the year (320 if we’re doing leap years). It’s the day that Georgetown University opened its doors to white heterosexual men and no one else in 1791. Oh, and of course, it’s my mother’s birthday. On the bright side, only 151,600 people died today, so we’ve got that going for us.

Birthdays are The Shit. Unless you’re one of those weird people who are like “Whatever, nothing special, let’s not set aside some time to celebrate each other.” For everyone else, birthdays are like your own personal Christmas, and you get one even if you don’t buy into the whole Jesus-as-Savior motif.

That said, even with all the goodies present, some people still don’t get to celebrate their birthdays. These people are called “Dead” and we don’t celebrate their birthdays cause that would be fucking depressing. We’re not all Fiona Apple. Some of us reach for peace.

So, when you wake up and it’s your dead mom’s birthday and you’re bummed but you’re also a grown ass man so you’re gonna handle your shit and move throughout your day the best you can, I’d say you have every right to get a little miffed when some jerk-off takes a dry erase marker and does this to your wall.


Kudos for using a dry-erase marker on a stick-on dry erase board, but the message outweighs the consideration of media here.

I don’t know what you’re thinking cause I’m not psychic like some dweebs out there, but I can tell you the possible explanations that ran through my cabeza when I first saw it.

  1. Damn, someone is a total dweeb.
  2. At least they used one of the right markers. Wait…is that permanent marker?
  3. Phew, no. It’s not.
  4. Who the Hell? Rich? Is Rich still here?
  5. Checked. Rich not here. When did I go to bed last night?
  6. But still. WHO!?

And regardless of Who, why? I think these are fair questions to ask. I think these are fair questions to get answers.

Now, if I knew there was going to be some paranormal activity shit at the party last night, I would have set up cameras and made it a whole thing. I’m committed like that. Unfortunately, a good time was had by all and no cloven-hoofed demons invaded.

At least not yet. We’ll see if some show up when we get to Maine.


Next Post: Bye-Bye, Brooklyn 

Previous Post: Nada, yo. You’re at the start.


2 thoughts on “She Lives

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