First of all - 50 followers with nary a giveaway! Thanks, you guys! I am truly humbled that fives of you exist willing to tolerate me. I've been a little swoony over it, feeling sorta popular and everything. Apparently, word has gotten out that I'm all cool now, because suddenly this is in my inbox:
Mmhm, That's right. Angelina wants ME to join Facebook AND be her friend. Well, I'm sorry, Little Miss Thang, but homewreckers piss me off. You're just going to have to depend on your gaggle of children and Jennifer Aniston's husband* to keep you company. Maybe Octomom would like to be your friend. *Yeah, I know. It was years ago and Jennifer's over it. I'm not.
So I delete her invitation, move on happily with my life, work a little, eat a little cereal, throw in a load of laundry and come back to the inbox to find this:
Really? Aren't the Beatles kind of broken up right now? Oh, and also? GEEZ. Angelina, leave me alone, dude. There's something to be said for being persistent, but seriously. It's sort of overkill. Okay, I get it. You like me. Understandable. I make a mean lasagna, my beer fridge is always full, I know a sh'load of Helen Keller jokes. Basically, I'm fun at parties. True dat. But I do not want to be your friend, Ange.
Is it that you think I'd be a good babysitter? I do live close to some good restaurants you and Brad might want to drop in on. Oh...so that's it. You've heard my husband shaves his head, so you're thinking we've got a razor sturdy enough for whatever the hell it is growing on Brad's face. Well, sorry. I'd prefer to not subject any of our appliances to your husband's dreadlocked beard-thingy. Even the dogs' Furminator is off-limits, sister. And don't even think about dulling the weed-wacker, I need it for the yard.
I bet Brad didn't even like you in the first place, but you just kept emailing him until he gave in. Well it won't work with me, Ms. Needy Needington. I've got standards. And 50 other friends. So there.