Alright Already!

I get it, I get it. Story Hour. Fine.

But you do realize that up until last year, I've been cranking out Story Hour for well over
ten years, and it has been getting a bit tedious to recount all those bad dates, crazy Houston
drivers, and of course, eighteen months in Iraq. I'm not even going to get into the sheer misery
that was my last year, when I chose to exile myself to North Carolina for a job that looked
great and turned out to be full of backstabbing ineptitude that made it unbearable to continue
being there for another second.

The long and the short of it is, I figured I was done writing and y'all were done reading. But
the outcry, nay, the freaking demand, and you people are pretty demanding, has told me
otherwise. You want more. You gluttons for punishment.

See, it was fine when Story Hour was a small, intimate group to which I could bitch and
whine without mercy. I pretty much didn't have a limit on what I could say, and really, I still
don't, but I find it bad form to bite the hand that feeds me. In other words I don't really want
to complain about my family in SH when they're reading SH. And sure, I'm going to complain
about them. I'm going to roll my eyes, bite my tongue and rant and rave to people who aren't
tied to me by blood. Because that's what families do.

They're readers though. (Waves. Hey y'all.) And it seems mean to be griping about them.
Sure, I have no shame and will crucify a guy I went out with here, because chances are
realllllllllly good he's never going to know about it, and it's also wicked entertaining.

After a Keira project turned into a family project today though, and I was contemplating
running away from home, something came up at dinner. (Tex Mex, incidentally, leaves me
too bloated with cheese and beans and yummy goodness, to run away from home. Remind
me of that in the future, mmkay?) The Mom told me I should write about today in Story
Hour. Then the Mom and the Brother, Chucklehead, got into a discussion about who had and
hadn't been allowed to read SH in the past, and I said I couldn't gripe about the family in it.
They said I could. So it's on like donkey kong, from here on out.

Because right now, I live with my family. The Mom says I'm never allowed to move out
again, because I give her massage therapy at least 2-3 times a week. The Dad just watches
me. A lot. I dunno why. And they all get confused why I tend to hang out in my room.
I like my room, it's where all my stuff is, and whatever project I do is mine. Unlike the
garden boxes which got out of hand today.

I think carne asada and cheese enchiladas are going to be my new meditation point.
Ohhhhhmmm