The Sun decided, after much convincing from his friend the Moon who had been here all afternoon (his father did a drop-and-run; I was in the shower and he calls. "Can the Moon come over for a minute?" "Right now" I ask as I'm stepping out of the shower? "Yeah, we're around the corner". "Sure!" I say, as the doorbell rings.) that he should spend the night over there. Apparently, I'm much stricter about the video games. I didn't let them play all day. It's not the Moon; he can take-or-leave a game, but the Sun? Can you say "INTERVENTION"? Sheesh.
Anyway. The Moon told the Sun that if they went over there, they wouldn't have to listen to me tell them no they couldn't play DS or PS2.
So off they went.
No job=no money to burn.
I'm tired anyway.
I should clean.
Instead I've been playing on MySpace and blogging. And listening to 98.7 Kiss-FM as they play Partay music from back in my day (remember when Luther was part of Change?). AAOW! D-Train! That was back when I drank Bacardi.
My, how the cookie crumbles.
Think I'll go polish off the coquito.
*Speaking of which.... you know, there is no earthly reason women should give up the poontang. Seriously. Once they get it, they are of no use to you, and yet they think they own you. I almost dumped TAN as a blogger boyfriend cuz he had a post along those lines that pissed me off (but I won't link directly to it since he's redeemed himself)... Because what I didn't get to vent about is... once a man thinks he's got it, you get NOTHING.
Whereas, BEFORE???? You get all kinds of cool shit. Why, just the other day, someone handed me a neatly folded package of frozen pasteles. And he made them with chicken instead of pork, because he remembered, despite a couple of beers, that I don't swine and dine. You MUST follow the link to understand (if you don't know and/or aren't Puerto Rican) how much work pasteles is. Now, I attribute this to a nice night out last week, and me singing. Between you and me, if I were to give it up, he'd be happy. But I'm not. Aside from him being too old (I like'em young and tender) I would never ever get a lovingly-folded package of pasteles, ever again.
Think I'll go heat up the last one and giggle my ass off.
*In case you're scratching your head at the segue, the coquito was a gift from the cousin of pasteles-man