I Get Sh*t Done

I just do. It’s almost a mantra for me.

The Daughter came home last night speaking about her world and her little friend, I’ll call her Whackadoozy, whom she’s known for about five years. Whackadoozy has been in a very off-putting relationship with someone who will be holding a license in the medical field purdy soon (be scared, be very scared).

It would seem now that we’ve finally come to Splitsville, but only by God’s grace.

Her insignificant sociopath ex-live-in boyfriend has left town and informed her that she needs to move out. The Daughter has offered her help in the extraction of Whackadoozy’s personal items from the abode. That’s because somehow, apparently mothering abilities have rubbed off on her. Let’s hope that’s as far as the motherhood goes for now. Please?

What did I do? I volunteered to help on what will otherwise be an exceptionally busy day for me. I gave them two hours. And, it’s on the verge of searingly hot out. Shit.

Perhaps there shall be an update later.


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