Saturday, January 29, 2011

Eight Dad Fistfight Day!

Today eight neighborhood dads are going to head out into the middle of the cul de sac to smash some face and finally find out which Dad is the motherfucker who can beat up the other seven dads living on your gated street. Weapons are encouraged, which didn’t used to be the way. All you kids and Moms are going to go out to root your dads on and talk shit to the other kids and moms. Your Dad will get knocked out fourth, and you and your mom will drag him back up the hill to your house where you’ll tend to his wounds. When you open his shirt you’ll be shocked to find a gaping wound gushing way too much blood.

“I wanted to win for you,” he’ll say. “I let myself get cut and I’ll miss you both so much.”

After his funeral you’ll have to move from the cul de sac because you don’t have a father to protect you anymore. When a Dad dies on your street, the other homeowners give a 24 hour headstart before they bust through your doors to steal and rape and burn your home to the ground. Before the fight your Dad rented a u-haul for just this contingency (all the dads rent u-hauls in case they die in the fistfight). Get the truck filled and make tracks to a studio apartment on the other side of town, where moms and daughters can live peacefully without a father on the premises for the price of a moderate tax paid in cash at the sheriff’s.

Happy Eight Dad Fistfight Day!

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Everyone’s Got Their Hopes Pinned On The New Stepdad Day!

Their mom, your new bride, will introduce you and tell them about some of the other families you’ve be a part of in the past. Then she’ll invite you up from the couch to address everybody. Open with a joke.

“Who’s your daddy?” say with a smile. It’ll get a polite titter from the older kids who were alive when that was a thing, but the younger kids will look at each other, unsure of whether they’re supposed to answer. One of the older kids will raise his hand with a question. Call on him.

“Yes, Louis Howard, with the Howards 13 years. Can you tell us a little bit about how you plan to steer our family so that we’re profitable enough to move out of this two-bedroom apartment before the summer?”

Explain that if things go well you should be promoted by March and the salary bump would more than cover the relocation costs.

“Sally Howard, eleven years in family,” Louis’ sister will say. “I have to tell you this isn’t very different from what we’ve heard before. Lots of promises depending on a whole lot of variables completely out of your control. In my experience, when a stepdad says he’ll be getting a promotion by March it means he’ll be getting fired and beating my mom by February. Care to respond?”

Break out the powerpoint with your company’s corporate structure showing the number of vacant positions above you, as well as the email from your boss telling you to “hang tight and we’ll take of you.”

The shorter boy, Brad, will pipe up next.

“When you get drunk do you get yell-y?”

Ask him to define “yell-y."  Brad will do his impression of one of your new wife’s former husbands. He’ll raise his voice and growl, "Who put these emmereffin toys in the living room. Trip on the G-D toys every time I gotta take a S. You’re all nothin but trash!”

Reassure Brad that when you get drunk, most of your anger turns inward, at yourself and your own failings.

“If I ever yell, I usually do it at pictures of my own dad. I wouldn’t really be interested in you kids and what you’re up to, so you won’t have to worry about that.”

They’ll seem to have been appeased by your answer. Finally, Sabrina, the youngest, will raise her hand with the hard-hitting questions.

“Can we have a puppy?”

Tell her, “Funny you should ask, sweetie.” Then reach into the box you have hidden behind the couch and reveal the golden lab that’s going to buy you at least a four month stretch before they start stealing cash off your dresser.

Happy Everyone’s Got Their Hopes Pinned On The New Stepdad Day!

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

New Husbands Day!

You and your friends got some new husbands yesterday.  They’re pretty awesome.

Jenny got this husband named Brad. He makes money working as a doctor in a hospital and he says nice things to her like “When I look in your eyes everything feels okay again” and “Nice buttocks.”

Amber got this husband called Aaron. He doesn’t make a lot of money but he works with kids or something. Amber says he knows how to build bookshelves and he gave her a shoulder massage just because she sounded tired.

Missy got a husband named Isaac.  Isaac is really handsome but he’s schizophrenic.  But he’s really handsome.

Pam got a husband named Oliver. Oliver loves the living shit out of guns. He has like fifteen different guns, so Pam’s safe now.

Karen got a husband whose name is Felix.  Felix is still in love with his first girlfriend after college who he wanted to marry, but he was drinking a lot back then so Gina, that was her name, she took off.  Felix is sober now, has been for years, and he says he’s fine with being Karen’s husband, but just under the surface is this need to convince Gina that he’s a good man, wherever she might be.  His marriage to Karen is pretty much going to be an example of the life that Gina could have had if she’d given him a chance to get clean.  So basically, Karen is in a marriage that exists solely for the possibility that Gina might happen back into Felix’s life and discover that Felix turned out to be a good man.  Is he hoping that Gina will just drop everything and beg him to take her back? She could be dead or gay by now. Anyway, Karen says Felix is a great cook and he likes hiking just as much as she does because Gina loved it just as much as she does also.

Beverly got this husband named Ulysses.  He’s just weird in a lot of ways, but Beverly was always into that.  He wears makeup.

The husband Mary got is called Henry. He’s ten years younger than she is so she got the best one because he’s the newest.

You got a husband named Mario.  Mario owns his own cheese shop and he gets as angry as you do at certain billboards.  You like laying down on the couch with Mario because it feels good to put your head on his chest and feel his heartbeat while the two of you watch TV.  You like having consensual sex with Mario too. You’re pretty sure you’re not going to replace Mario for years.

Happy New Husbands Day!

Monday, January 24, 2011

You’re So Fucking Punk Rock Day!

Today at the health insurance company where you work as a temporary administrative assistant, just after you drop your bag under your desk and take off your coat you’ll be accosted by your supervisor insisting that you print twelve copies of a massive powerpoint presentation for a meeting she forgot she had that morning.  You’ll only have about five minutes before the meeting starts, but after emailing all the other admins to lay off the printers for a few minutes, you’ll send those copies out to every networked printer on the floor, managing to print all twelve copies almost simultaneously and getting them placed in front of every chair in the conference room just before the danish and croissants cart gets rolled in. You’ll be on your way out of the conference room when your supervisor grabs your arm and whispers in your ear, “You’re so fucking punk rock."  You weren’t sure if your co-workers had realized that your excellent job performance and near perfect attendance record over the course of your three years as an insurance company permatemp was fueled entirely by the anarchic spirit and uncompromising fury of true punk, so it’s nice to know that someone gets you for once.  Back at your desk, following a silent prayer to Saint Johnny Thunders, you’ll start on today’s big action item: making calls to the Delta SkyMiles customer courtesy line to try to get the triple mile bonus for your supervisor’s trip to the Akron satellite campus back in November.

Happy You’re So Fucking Punk Rock Day!

Friday, January 21, 2011

Confront Your Mom Day!

Don’t let her treat you like this.  She’s headed for the kitchen.  Go chase her down.

Ask, “What was that?”

She’ll say what was what?

“That. You totally just dissed me.”

I don’t know what you’re talking about is what she’ll say.

“You dissed me. Just now.”

She’ll ask how she dissed you.

“When you walked through the living room I nodded hello and you totally just walked passed me as if you didn’t see it.”

I didn’t see it, she’ll say.

“You totally saw it. You were looking right at me.”

I was busy. I have to fold these clothes.

“Which is it? Did you not see me nod or are you too busy to nod back?”

Your mom will say she’s really tired.  It’s hard for her to sleep since your father left.

“So now you’re too tired to nod.  Too tired to be polite to your own daughter.  This is about respect.  You disrespected me.  I won’t tolerate people disrespecting me.  That’s one thing I won’t put up with.  Not in the place where I live.  I won’t be disrespected.”

Your mom will say that she does respect you.  She won’t say anything else.  She’ll just continue folding some towels as if the matter’s been resolved.

“Hey! You’re being a coos!  You’ve been acting like a total bitch to everybody in this house! ”

Your mom will say that it’s just you and her in the house since your father left.  Then she’ll cry into one of the towels.

“You crying doesn’t change the fact that you disrespected me.”

Your mom will say she’s sorry.

You should suddenly raise your voice and get up in her face and scream, “I am a strong, smart, confident woman who won’t be disrespected like this!!!”

Throw your plastic cup of vodka and diet coke into your mom’s face then drag her to the ground by her hair.  Once she wriggles away, you should both take an hour or two to cool off, then later tonight both of you should sit down and talk this through in the hot tub.

Happy Confront Your Mom Day!

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Weather Reports From The Dead Day!

You are haunted by a ghost who every night enters your room through the wall and wakes you with a high-pitched, eardrum piercing scream, the kind of scream that can only come from the mouth of someone being tortured by the cruelest of hell's minions. The ghost eventually stops screaming and looks around your room as if he's surprised to be there. When his eyes finally land on you, his eyes bulge in his sockets and turn black. Then he tells you what the weather will be like in the morning.

"Gonna rain. Just danced on some of the drops about 40 miles from here. Headed this way."

"Sunny tomorrow. You'll really be able to see the faces of those whose grins you covet."

"Snow's a comin'."

For some reason, whenever it's going to snow, he always says, "Snow's a comin'."

Today you're going to do some research to find out who lived in your house before you. After many hours at the microfiche machine, you'll find out you're being haunted by the ghost of Ichabod Proulx, who was known by many as "The most boring man in town!"

Happy Weather Reports From The Dead Day!

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Two Salesmen At The End Of Their Lives Day!

Jack Rafferty, the number one salesman of aluminum siding for eight years straight from 1965 to 1973, is going to pay a visit to you, the number two salesman of aluminum siding for those same years. You overtook him in 1974, and he turned to drugs, alcohol, guns, sex clubs, and neo-nazism.

"I took it a little hard," Jack will tell you. "Not being number one anymore. Couldn't even enjoy it while I had it because I just kept fearing you and the way you were nipping at my heels."

Tell Jack that for years you thought that nothing else mattered except overtaking him on the sales board. But once you finally pulled it off, it hurt to watch the way Jack tumbled down that slope into drugs, alcohol, guns, sex clubs, and neo-futurism.

"Nazism," Jack will correct you.

"Sorry," say.

Tell him you actually hated him even more once you became number one. "I couldn't bask in the light at the top because I couldn't take my eyes off of you, as you raced for the bottom."

Jack will say, "Glad that's all behind us now."

"We can just be men," say to him.

"Dying men. How long you got?"

Tell him your doctor says you have six months to live.

Jack's eyes will go wide. That old fire will spark to light. "Me too," he'll say.

Neither of you will say a word, but each of you will silently and unequivocally devote the rest of his short life to outliving the other. Nothing else will matter to either of you, except the dream of one day standing topside by your rival's freshly dug grave. WHO WILL GET THE TOP SPOT ON THAT BIG SALES BOARD CALLED LIFE????

Happy Two Salesmen At The End Of Their Lives Day!

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

The Thing Where You See Your Bully Getting Beat Up By His Dad Day!

Today you're going to have that thing where you see your bully getting beat up by his Dad. It's the bully who is constantly shoulder-checking you into lockers and occasionally spitting on your chair in Social Studies just before you sit down, the one who you hate, who ruins school for you every single day. You have a fantasy of how awesome it will be when you're all grown up and you come back to town from the big job as a lawyer for Hollywood movie studios that you're going to have, pulling into a gas station in your Mercedes Benz with your doctor husband holding your beautiful twin daughters on his lap and you'll look out and see the bully, fat and bald and waiting to pump your gas. You'll say, "That's the bully who used to make my life hell." Then you'll tell him to fill er up and make it quick.

That fantasy won't seem so fun anymore after today, because it's hard to feel bad for a bully after you see him getting beat up by his dad, like you're about to see. You'll be leaving the Putt Putt with your parents when you'll hear a commotion in the parking lot. You'll look over and see your bully and his dad with their fists up, circling each other, each of them looking for that little piece of real estate that they can throw a punch through and connect. The dad will be trash talking and your bully will be quiet and maybe a little scared. Your bully will throw a big left hook and miss wildly. His dad will take the opportunity to send three hard rights into your bully's gut, making him double over. His dad will raise his fists in the air and do a little dance, making one or two spectators cheer him on. Your bully will get some wind back in his lungs and he'll take his spot in front of his dad, sending a quick right into his Dad's nose for a good connect. His dad will shake it off, even as the blood starts to pour forth, then he'll sock his son in the left eye and the right side of the head, a combo that sends his son, your bully, careening into a parked LeSabre. His Dad won't wait for him to get back on his feet. He'll crowd him against the LeSabre and send a succession of blows into your bully's kidneys, one after the other. Your bully will roll out and show some real pluck when he manages to duck his Dad's roundhouse and then send a left up into his dad's chin, causing his dad to bite down on his tongue and fill his eyes up with tears. Your bully will dance back a few paces then rush in, maybe a little too soon. His dad will hop to the left, recover his stance and unload on your bully with a succession of hits to the face and gut from which, anyone can see, there will be no recovery. The hits won't stop for maybe 30 seconds before your bully finally tumbles backward, flattens on the blacktop of the parking lot, his head making a loud clap when it clicks back on his neck. Lights out for your bully as his dad does a victory dance to the cheers and applause of the Putt Putt patrons waiting to get into their cars and go home.

You won't be able to help but feel bad for your bully after that, even though you have no reason to feel bad for him. It was a fair fight between him and his dad and he lost, plain and simple. That's no justification for him being mean to you. Still, you can't help but want to reach out to him and let him know you understand what he's going through. And that's exactly what you're going to do.

"Hey," you'll say to him. "I know you're only being a bully to me because your Dad keeps beating you up. Problem is you're too heavy on your left foot and you leave your gut wide open."

"So what turdbrain," he'll say. "What's it to you?"

"Lemme train you," tell him. "Gimme three months. After I'm through with you, you'll knock your dad down flat. I don't waste time on losers."

"What's in it for you?" he'll ask.

"I come through for you, you gotta come through for me. No more shoving me into lockers. No more spitting on my chair. No more bullying me of any kind. Deal?"

The bully will think about it.

"Deal," he'll say.

You and your bully will shake on it, then you'll start training every day for four hours a day, nearly breaking his body into pieces while building his spirit into something not even a tank could topple, and you'll almost fall in love but you'll manage to keep it in check, both of you knowing full well that he's gotta keep that love in his heart if he's ever gonna beat the living shit out of his old man.

Happy The Thing Where You See Your Bully Getting Beat Up By His Dad Day!

Monday, January 10, 2011

Breakfast With Two Guys You Don't Remember Meeting Day!

You're at a diner in a booth shoveling some French Toast into your hole when you look up and you realize you have no idea who the other two guys at the table are. You were laughing together just a few minutes ago, though you don't remember at what. One of the guys has an eye that's clouding up with blood, and you have bruised knuckles. Yesterday was your daughter's birthday so you went out drinking to forget about the last time you saw her back in 96. That's about all the data you have on the situation right now.

"Where'd you two come from anyway?" ask them.

"Oh thank Christ," the one with the eye will say. "I was worried I was the only one who didn't know who the hell you two were."

The other one, in the Mariners cap, he'll start to chuckle. "I just been sitting here hoping someone I know might come in so I can introduce him to you two, but do that thing where I only give my friend's name and force you guys to introduce yourselves."

"Yeah I do that too," say. "At parties. I'm terrible with names."

"Me too," the eye will say.

"But never this bad," say. "I mean, it's like you two were beamed down here by an alien craft."

You'll all share a moment of silence. Were aliens involved? you'll wonder.

"Let's retrace our steps," the Mariners hat will say.

"Okay," the Eye will say. "Yesterday afternoon I went out drinking. Went to Johnny's Local."

You and the Mariners hat will nod. "Yep, Johnny's Local," you'll both say.

No one will have anything to add.

"Man," the Eye will say. "Guess we had a fun night. This is just like that movie The Hangover!"

"You bet," Mariners hat will say.

"Except I'm 53," you'll say. "I'm around the corner from my one-room apartment, the one I'll probably be found dead in after someone notices an odor, and it's Monday morning. And it's cold."

The Mariners hat will lower his head and his shoulders will shake with sobs. The Eye will just keep eating his breakfast.

"Don't care what you guys think," the Eye will say. "The fact that I can't remember yesterday means I can decide how things went down. And I decide that me and my two new best friends had the most fun three middle-aged guys can have."

The Mariners hat will stop crying. You'll raise your coffee cup for a toast, and you'll all three clink your mugs and agree to meet at Johnny's Local every Sunday afternoon from here on in. Then the police will come and arrest the Mariners cap on an outstanding warrant.

Happy Breakfast With Two Guys You Don't Remember Meeting Day!

Friday, January 07, 2011

No One Cares If The Matchmaker Ever Falls In Love Day!

"We never would have met if it wasn't for you," they say. "I was so alone, wondering if I'd ever find anyone who liked sex to be exactly as violent and food-based as I do. But then you came along and with your meddling ways, you introduced me to some guy you met once at a book club or AA or something, and love was instant."

"We're going to name him after you," they say. "We decided that it's only right that our first born carry your name, since he never would have come into being had you not been so bored with your own life that you had to start steering the lives of others. Whether it's because you're afraid of intimacy or because you think you're unlovable and therefore your romantic instincts should only be used to help others, you gave us love. You gave us our child. For that, we thank you."

"It was real cool of you to introduce me to your friend after I told you I could never be attracted to you," they say. Oh they say it.

You've devoted your life to bringing happiness and warmth into the lives of others while you yourself must spend every night alone, on the floor by the wall, crying into the electrical sockets. No one bothers to return the favor to you with anything more than another word of gratitude. You know full well their expression of thanks is just another excuse for them to tell the story about how they met, like it was some momentous occasion everyone's supposed to care about, as if we're all supposed to know where we were on the night Jenny and Johnny first laid eyes on each other, the way we remember where we were on the day they announced the new Star Wars movies or 9/11.

Tonight you'll gather all those couples you fixed up at your home because you have an announcement to make.

"Jeff and Annie, Maurice and Alana, Kevin and Kevin, George and Bharati, Paul and Tatiana, Jenny and Johnny, Heather and Doris, Terance and Susan, Giovanni and Pam, Colleen and Steve, Eunice and Bill, Harry and Paula, and Frank and Maryanne, I've brought you all here tonight because I have an announcement to make."

They'll all stop talking to each other about their respective relationships, trying to top one another on the subject of who takes the more interesting vacations, to hear what you have to say.

"I'm going away," tell them. "To live in a cave in a barren, rocky land where I'll meet no one and share my life with nothing. I'm practically living that way already, and seeing as there appears to be no reason for me to assume I'll ever have love in my life the way you all do..."

That was a mistake. A few of the couples will start talking about something cute that happened over the Christmas holiday, something about buying each other the same gifts. They'll try to shout over each other.

"Quiet!" say. "Since I have no reason to believe I'll ever find someone to love me, I'm going to remove myself from society so that I don't have to enter conversations at parties and experience that faint flicker of warmth when I imagine someone possibly wanting to share time with me, only to have that warmth hastily extinguished when they ask whether I know anyone who is single, leaving me colder than ever, wishing I'd never left the safe comfort of my afghans at home."

You'll wait for them to express some kind of wish that you'd stay, but they'll just kind of stare at you.

"So, I guess this is it," you'll say. "This is the last you'll see of me. I'm leaving in the morning, setting fire to most of my possessions once I get to a vacant lot."

Now they're staring at each other. Mooning.

"So, goodbye," say to them.

Finally, one of them will come forward with his glass raised.

"A toast," he'll say. "To the one person in the world without whom I never would have found the love of my life."

That will make them nearly claw at each other, practically screaming their similar declarations of the one, true and incomparable love that wouldn't have been possible without you. Some fights will break out when they start to doubt each other's love. There'll be some trash talk and someone's blouse will be ripped. In the midst of the melee you'll decide to leave early for your cave, slipping out the front door and leaving a note asking that they not lock the door because the realtor will be showing the place in the morning.

Happy No One Cares If The Matchmaker Ever Falls In Love Day!

Thursday, January 06, 2011

Alive Americans In Crisis Day!

Raise your voice and declare yourself:

"I am an alive American. I have been alive for __ years now, and every day is harder than the last. But I will remain alive, breathing, interacting with people behind cash registers and people who want to use the ketchup on my table at the diner, until I get hit by a car or something.

People think I am staying alive just for the attention and the fried foods. They are wrong. I am staying alive because I am frightened that dying hurts.

People think I am staying alive because I want to be congratulated. They are wrong. I am staying alive because I can pretty much be counted on to do what everyone else does, because I don't like to stray too far from the herd.

People think I am staying alive because of the Summer Olympics. They are kind of right. I do enjoy watching the Summer Olympics. But they come around so infrequently that it's not enough.

I am an Alive American. I vote. I pay taxes. I fall in love and I experience heartbreak and I battle substance addictions and I sometimes get really into TV shows and spend weekends watching all the episodes in a row on DVD.

I am an Alive American and I'm cold, bored, and there's nothing I want to buy."

Good. Now lay in bed for another 45 minutes, then roll over the side and onto the floor so you can crawl into the bathroom and take a shower.

Happy Alive Americans In Crisis Day!

Wednesday, January 05, 2011

Divorced Superintendent Day!

He hangs out in the hallway now, asking all the tenants who pass if everything's okay in their apartments. He's knocked on your door three times to offer to double-check your radiators to make sure they're distributing the optimum level of heat.

"I found this shower head," he told you on one of these impromptu visits. He held up a variable speed shower head, still in the plastic. "I can attach it if your shower's been weak."

You thanked him but let him now that you already have the exact same shower head in your shower.

"That must be a spare," you said.

He said it's good to have spares on hand. You don't want to find yourself one day, caught unawares, with nothing left.


Like most of these recent visits, he shuffled away without saying goodbye.

Today when you come home he's going to be sitting on your stoop. You'll ask if everything's okay.

"I'm thinking of traveling," he'll say. "Seeing some things in this country. Before I'm too old."

You'll say that sounds great.

"Nothing keeping me here anymore," he'll say. "Nobody expecting me home."

You'll tell him you'll miss his being your super. "Send me a postcard. You have the address."

In a few months you'll receive a postcard from the Grand Canyon. On the back, a message from your Super: "Our problems are really small compared to the world. Also, the landlord once asked me to install a camera in your bathroom but I refused. Thanks for the talks."

Happy Divorced Superintendent Day!

Tuesday, January 04, 2011

Competitive Cyclists Should Just Do What People With Seasonal Affective Disorder Tell Them To Do Day!

Today you're going to be abducted and held for ransom by a woman with Seasonal Affective Disorder.

"I don't need the money," she'll tell you while she pastes newsprint onto a piece of construction paper to form the ransom demand she'll send to your wife. "I just do this because it's what people expect. I just hate the fucking winter and I need someone around to talk to about it. Fuck it's cold."

You'll ask her to let you go.

"Not till Spring. Jesus, it's so fucking gray outside. Isn't it too fucking gray?"

You won't say anything.

"Agree that it's too fucking gray or I'll lock you in the storm cellar with no food. There's water bugs down there."

You'll tell her it's too fucking gray.

"So depressing," she'll say. "Doesn't it just make you want to crawl into a tree trunk and die?"

Say, "Yes."

After mailing your ransom demand your kidnapper will come home and make a giant pot of stew. It will taste really good. You'll spend the next three months watching cop shows and eating hot stew and talking about how cold it is. One day you'll say to her, "I kind of like the coziness of winter sometimes" and she'll break your right knee with the fireplace poker, which will be devastating to you because you're a competitive cyclist.

Happy Competitive Cyclists Should Just Do What People With Seasonal Affective Disorder Tell Them To Do Day!

Monday, January 03, 2011

With The High Heels Still On Day!

You're old and dying and some people you're related to have crowded around your bed to ask you if there's anything you've never done that you still want to do.

"I've been watching the videos," you rasp to them. "The dirty ones. I wish I could have done like the girls in the videos and had sex with the high heels still on."

Of the people you're related to, the older ones look concerned. They brought their children for you to see once more, to give them a chance to say goodbye to their grandma. But it sounds like you're about to go off on one of your "those videos" tangents.

"In those videos," you gasp at them. "The girls look so sleek, smooth as new cars, and I think it's because they leave their high heels on. Like they know that there's no point when a lady shouldn't try to look her best, even when she's on her back letting strange men do their worst. The men have no need for the feet so why not keep them dolled up in the pretty high heeled shoes. I wish I had kept my high heels on when I used to put my feet on your grandfather's shoulders."

The children have been ushered out of the room by now, and some of your descendents are telling you to shhhh.

"I don't want you to pay any men to come here and fulfill my dying wish," you whisper, holding one of the many hands extended to you. "Don't trouble yourselves. Some regrets we take with us to the grave to keep us company."

They're used to your passive aggressive tactics and normally they'd call you on something like this. But you're on your deathbed and they don't want to fight, so one of your sons-in-law has gone off to find enough wifi to search through adultfriendfinder and see who's still taking out-calls in your hospital's zip code.

Happy With The High Heels Still On Day!