If you ask me, I’ll say I don’t believe in mushy things like spontaneous love and gifts from the heart. Yarky face. And yet ….
This is my last time singing Messiah with this wonderful choir. So please, don’t fuck it up. Here are some rules.
What happens after the last therapy session?
I’ll be damned if one asshole preacher is going to keep me away from singing Messiah this year.
They say that no good deed goes unpunished.
Someone made the mistake of asking P.J. why she isn’t a Christian.
Finally getting around to clearing out paperwork yielded found treasure.
Meat tastes like meat and beets taste like potting soil.
It’s a peculiar manifestation of my attachment disorder.
I took a closer look in the hopes of defending my lemming status.