happy birthday to yew

so lost another kid to the dirty 30s. sigh and yes, dirty thirties is the sickest term, if you know a better and more apt rhyming word, let me know. flirty thirties? EWWW. if you use that one i’m sorry, friendship denied.

she appeared out of nowhere.

look, an old man is talking, lets listen.

quite the green thumb.

lookin’ haggard from my 4.30am queasy couch surfing.

BLAH IT’S FOLLOWING ME!

treebeard?

oh jade.

garage sale gem.

she’s always got the what the fuck is going on look.

check my roots, no greys yet, just golden guys what look white.

good thing my shirt has a built-in baby hammock whatever those new yuppie parents are all about, papoose? no that’s on your back. ugh hahaa whatever.

raymi’s guide to party anxiety, play with the animals or the small children, come out looking like mary magdalene, oh wait, she was a hooker. nevermind. come out looking like her anyway.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY

i know right, are you puking yet?

ha nice goblet of white wine, i swear i was takin’er easy for real. MEAN IT.

babe alert.

cheeky monkeys.

a well-deserved injury after whipping me in the ankle with a tennis ball (can’t aim for shit, or can?) and i also learned that fil could juggle. or i knew this before in the beginning awkward stage of our courtship and just forgot about it, he tried to perform a juggling routine once and couldn’t hack it. anyway i was all ooh juggling boner and fil was all really?! doot dee doot doot doot! (juggling sounds). so this injury was accidental, we had a bunch of tennis balls we were playing catch with and naturally the dog was spazzing out monkey in the middle and finally got fil.

happy birthday martin tweed!!!!!