Monday, March 23, 2009
You've really hit a new low, baby. I can ignore the receipts from Mo's Pleasure Palace posted prominently on the fridge. I can even manage to ignore those distressing squeaking sounds coming from your room at night (and sometimes right around lunch time). But something I can't ignore is coming home to find you having unholy relations with your "sex doll" on my new Turkish carpet. Whatever you and "Kristy" do in your private time is your business. But Christ, how do you expect me to get the smell of baby powder, creamed carrots and rubber out of my carpet now? You're sick baby. SICK.