which means I just woke up and the dogs aren't even fed yet, which means my life is in chaos as usual and now I feel like Garfield, hating Mondays. If only I had a pan of lasagna to dive into.
So I will just ask, based on another hard-hitting conversation Ned and I had: If you fell over dead today, what sort of horrifying things would your loved ones find when they threw out all your stuff? Do you have a plan in place for this? Does your best friend know to come burn the 800 volumes you've written on why you love Conway Twitty?
You can sign in anonymously if you want, pervy.
