Back From Beyond

In the tradition of the late V.C. Andrews insanely popular Flowers in the Attic series, where new works under her name proliferated for decades after her death, we are pleased to bring you the continued saga of Heartinhand. 

Ok, so where did I leave off? Oh yes, book club. Hold on, fuckers, we are in for a bumpy ride! So, as I was saying, Churchy didn't read the frigging book she chose for the club to read. Didnt. Read. The.Book. Who does that? Even my mentally challenged papergirl with usually forgets our house and sniffs glue behind the No Frills wouldn't do that, I'm sure. But no, Churchy apparently heard about this pile of puke book from a new "client" of hers, one who is moving to Rose City from Ottawa, and so she decides to run with it. Again, who does that? So everyone sits around Helen's livingroom, politely sipping their chai and nibling on the stale-est nuts this side of Wilford Brimley, and of course I'm biting my tongue. Then I think fuck it, Charley, I was put on this earth for many reasons, but the main one is to keep the shit real. So I had to blurt out that I hated the book and was glad when this dinglenuts was kidnapped because she was so annoying. Wheelz was there, of course, and this sent the poor girl into spasms of laughter. Churchy tried to join in with her, but Wheelz gave her the evil eye and she stopped - Wheelz can't stand the bitch. Of course, Mouse doesn't know why, but I know the real reason, which I'll save for another day. Anyway, the whole thing was a bigger gongshow than the time back in grade three when Nicky Absolom decided it was a good idea to put his cat in the dryer. 

Speaking of grade three, I recently found my second elementary school libary assistant, after a long internet search. It was great to catch up with Mrs Fulcrum again. She hasnt changed a bit.
Derwood has been home for 21 days now, 18 of which I was dropping eggs, and 19 of which have involved my daily struggle to poop. I am not sure where i'm storing everything. I've been addicted to jalapeno poppers and Baker's Boys cinnamon twists, and I've even resorted to drinking a Coors Light or two every night to try and rouse up the troops, but thus far? Paid a dime and only farted. It feels like Im crowning, but I'm only passing corn. I haven't had a kernel of corn since we went to the corn festival in New Brunswick last summer, so fuck if I know where that's been hiding. If I don't poop soon, I'm going to donate my body to science. I'm pretty sure my innards will reveal that I'm really Kitt, from Night Rider. 

I've decided that I'm going to cut my hair. I can't do anything with this sack of crap. Gaylene has this real cool 'do that I'd like to copy, and I don't see why I can't, since she lives in the Boonies and wouldnt ever come and see me. I was going to ask Murphy what I should do with my hair, but she cuts hers with nail scissors because she's so damn cheap, so I decided not to. Well, what do you expect when you marry a Newfie.
Peace.