this is our week.
"mommy, look! my tattoo! lemme give you tattoo."
i no longer get flowers from her...only weeds. she'll plop them on the table and say, "here ya go, mommy."
thank, mimzy.
and this guy scoots on up in his seat, thinking deep thoughts about life and such.
i don't think you can get much comfortable than this...
the end.
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