I came to the End of The Internet on Friday. I was searching for a laptop bag, right? And it turns out that laptop bags are the fugliest thing on the planet. Well, at least, the ones I could find.

Hence, the End of The Internet.

But I get all kinds of pissed off when I can’t find something that should be so simple, so I spent most of the day flopping around indignantly, occasionally shaking my fists at The Internet Gods, who had, for the first time, failed me.

After my daughter came home from preschool, she climbed up onto my indignant lap and demanded to look at what I’d been looking at. Which happened to be the kate spade website.

She and I spent a good while perusing ridiculously expensive purses, which, apparently, she, like her mother, is enamored by.

Eventually, she slithered off my frustrated lap and stood on her head on the floor next to me. Seeing a perfect opportunity to teach her some gymnastics, I rolled her over, helping her perform her first somersault. Delighted, she stood up, clapped her hands, yelled, “YAY!” and then begged me to do it again. So I did. We probably did twenty somersaults together before it was time for bed.

And it was walking up the stairs that I noticed something. The scar on the back of her head was bright purple.

Now, she has a skull implant there, covered by a thin layer of imperfect scalp skin (thank YOU, neural tube defects), upon which no hair will ever grow. The scar is fairly visible, although it often looks like her part is just extra-long.

She’s also got a couple of birthmarks on her face, common for kids with midline skull abnormalities, all of which turn from mildly discolored to extremely red whenever she becomes Furious George (which, since she’s my kid, is fairly often).

But I’d never seen her skull turn that purplish shade before. Immediately, I thought of what a dumbass move it was to do somersaults with a kid who has a fucking skull implant.

I dragged her into the bathroom, where the light was a bit better, and took a closer look. It could be something…and it could be nothing. Either way, I was right back in that birthing room, delivering a sick baby again. Only this time, it really WAS my fault.

I called the doctor on call, snotting and crying all over the phone, as I kept her up well-past her bedtime, to assess her level of consciousness. When I realized that she seemed to be just fine, the purplishness had subsided, I decided to put her to bed.

Then I checked on her every forty-five minutes for the rest of the night.

The next morning, the on-call doctor finally called back. Apparently, the answering service sucks a fat one. “Keep an eye out,” she said, “for any other signs of head injury. Vomiting, loss of consciousness, swelling, bruising, irritability.”

Okay, this I could do.

The following evening, I put her in bed, where she promptly barfed everywhere.

Shit, I thought briefly, until I remembered that my own guts had been through hell that week. Okay, I told myself, it’s a flu-bug. She’ll probably be up half the night barfing her guts out.

But she wasn’t.

She got up late the following morning and ate a quick breakfast with her brother.

Then, on the way to the Computer Store, she yacked again. A full 14 hours after her initial vomiting episode. Which, to me, was a Very Bad Sign.

Off to the ER we went. After several very long hours, it seemed that was simply some very bad timing. A flu-bug was the most likely culprit for her illness.

She’s been grounded until her sixteenth birthday.

That is, after I buy her a pony and a Porsche.

————

I have a new column up every Thursday at CafeMom. It’s called (barely) Surviving Parenthood. It’s full of the awesome.

———–

Speaking of Full of the Awesome, I was thinking about using THAT for a shirt design. Is that lame?

Also: TODAY is Tax Day, not April 15, which, hi, why didn’t someone tell me it was changing? That’s bullshit.

Anyway, the winner of my shirt giveaway:

(P.S: if you’re interested, they’re giving away a couple of my shirts on Band Back Together, too.)

Dear Aunt Becky,

Who is the Mormon-Faced kid from American Idol?

Oh you mean the one I talked about on Friday?

(frantically googles)

MORMON FACE.

That guy. Kris Allen. He’s the Mormon-Faced kid from American Idol.

Tell me I’m not right.

Dear Aunt Becky,

This is probably a stupid question, but…

I would love to post on Band Back Together, but I can’t figure out how. Do you have to register on the website? Is there some kind of “submit post” button I’m missing?

Am I just a huge fucking idiot who can’t figure out something totally obvious?

That is most assuredly NOT a stupid question, Prankster. It’s a weird concept and we’re working on a new site design to make it a little…easier for everyone involved. But I don’t have it up yet, so just bear with me. (also: April’s BB2G theme is up!)

So, you go to the main screen, Band Back Together.com, right?

Looks like this:

For the how to contribute guidelines, well, it’s a little hard to read, but that’s all the boring stuff about how to write a wordpress post (it’s a brief, semi-decent wordpress tutorial), disclaimers, all the other stuff.

It also has a brief explanation of how to register for the site, which you must do to post anything. This box is found on the sidebar of the blog. Your other WordPress accounts will not (unfortunately) transfer, so you must register here.

It’ll take you to a log-in page. Register there.

You can change your password at any time, but your username cannot, so choose something you like.

When you are done, click the Register Button.

You must use a valid email address.

Why?

Your password (a jumbled up mixture of letters and numbers) will be emailed to you. Once you log-in for the first time, change your password.

Once on the site, click “Profile” from the sidebar. From there, you have a ton of different options.

If you want a link to your blog, add both first and last name (can be made up) and blog URL if you want your posts to link back to your blog.

If you want a custom avatar, instead of the generic monster-y looking one WordPress will assign you, go here.

If you need more instructions for how to post on a WordPress blog, please go here, to the wordpress tutorial. Any other questions, let me know.

Dear Aunt Becky,

My (adult) sisters are fighting – the kind of clawing at your soul, crying wracking sobs because it seems like it’ll never be ok, echoes forever fighting that you hope never to be a part of, ever.  Of course, each thinks the other is to blame, and (of course), they are both a little bit right.  Each of them has done hurtful things to the other, and the repercussions of those hurtful things seem never ending.

One did apologize and try to stitch a relationship back together, but it was thrown back in her face; the other thinks she has done nothing to apologize for and feels our family is blaming her for sticking up for herself.

It is just one of those situations where I am totally helpless, and yet everyone expects me to have the answer.  I’d like to help them, they’ve both asked me for help, but I am completely clueless as to how to do that when everything I say seems – to them – as if I am taking sides.  I don’t want to take sides, I just want things to get better.

I thought you, or your Pranksters, might have some suggestions for helping two sisters, who I know love each other but are just so hurt right now, to come back together.

I really appreciate any ideas you might have ~ thanks!

Sighs.

Families.

Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em.

Sorry to hear you’re being put in the middle of something that doesn’t have a thing to do with you. That’s a pile of bullshit right there.

Now, I’m sure the Pranksters will have plenty to say, but my advice to you is to make it clear that you are not taking sides. Unless you want to ally yourself with one of your sisters (thereby alienating the other), I don’t see any other alternative beyond declaring yourself neutral.

You’re not responsible for fixing any problems but your own, no matter how much you want to. Sometimes, the best thing to do is to stay back and let the fight take it’s course.

I’m really sorry I don’t have a better answer.

Pranksters?

I’m getting a tattoo on Tuesday (win!) but I’m not entirely sure what I want underneath, except that I do NOT want fire. I’d rather get a poorly misspelled name than fire under the phoenix tattoo. But you know, I need something else under there. A scene.

HALP ME, PRANKSTERS.

I NEED YOUR BRILLIANCE.

Now, I don’t watch much reality TV. Putting twenty people in an isolated bubble for six to nine months and expecting them to perform incredible acts and engage in weird wild behavior is kinda boring to me. If I want weirdness, all I have to do is look at my kids. Or in the mirror.

The only reality television show I’ve watched in recent years is American Idol, and I stopped watching after Mormon-Face won.

(I did, however, adore The Real World, with Puck and Pedro. ZOMGBBQWTF I am dating myself.)

I’ve occasionally tuned into the Biggest Loser for a minute or two, because it makes me feel good to eat cheeseburgers and be all, “YOU KNOW YOU WANT A PIECE OF THIS, DON’T YOU, MOTHERFUCKERS?” to the poor contestants sweating of their pounds. Then I quickly switch to something MORE gruesome and dark, because that’s what I prefer.

It seems I only watch depressing, dark television shows AFTER they’ve been pulled off the air. I’m going to guess that my funk is due to the end of Prison Break, which still makes me weep.

Last year, I noticed half the blog world was doing something called “The 30 Day Shred,” a workout designed by the cute-as-a-button Jillian Michaels. Well, I thought flippantly as I ordered the workout DVD from Amazon, I bet I just lost like 7 pounds just ordering it.

I was gonna be a SHREDHEAD.

I got the DVD in the mail and stared it down, knowing that just OWNING it would make me lose a bunch of weight.

Eventually, I realized I should probably take it out of the plastic wrap and open it up. BINGO! Another 4 pounds gone, I figured, patting myself on the back heartily.

Now here’s the thing, Pranksters, I kinda love to work out. Which is probably not something you’d expect from me, but it’s true. There’s some sick part of me that loves to get all hot and sweaty and strong. So when I went to the basement (to avoid roving crotch parasites who would most certainly smack me on the ass while I worked out), I was pretty pumped to get my workout on.

I did it.

Then I did it again.

Then I did it the next day.

I felt great….for someone who couldn’t walk. My leg muscles had turned to jello, and the very act of rolling over in bed caused me to cry out in pain. Some sick part of me was awfully proud of this.

So I kept on it. Shredding my cares away.

Until, I noticed pain in a place that I couldn’t quite explain away.

My foot.

I’d hurt my foot when I’d fallen down the stairs, very early into my pregnancy with Amelia. I’d never been able to properly treat it, thanks to my gestating crotch parasite, instead, I wore Das Boot and iced it whenever possible.

(sidebar: do you KNOW how people treat you when you’re pregnant, wearing a gigantic boot? Like you’re suffering an IQ of 12. It was, quite possibly, the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced. People talking to me slowly and loudly while making it clear they thought I was mentally-challenged.)

(Dubya-Tee-Eff)

And we all know what happens when I get pregnant: I get fat. All that extra weight on my poor injured foot lead to more pain. By the end of my pregnancy, my feet had swollen so badly that I couldn’t wear shoes and the hurt one was approximately the size and shape of a cinder block.

I delivered the girl and the swelling went down, and frankly, I had bigger fish to fry than my poor ickle foot. It could have been on fire and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Last spring, when I decided to do Das Shred, it aggravated my old injury. I had to stop.

I was a #ShredFailure

Unfortunately, this injury also put a stop to my gardening abilities last year. So it’s no surprise that my garden is half-complete, my roses sadly suffering from Black Spot. I’d managed to get outside this weekend, before it got Ass Cold again, to fix some of what was left undone, but I’m actually ashamed by the state of my yard.

So, Jillian Michaels, wherever you are; you can crawl out from under your piles of money and get your pert, perky ass to my house and help me fix it.

Hey, I’ll even let you wear your green sports bra and spanky short-shorts.

I have a zillion things to say and I’ve sat here, fingers at the ready and still, nothing comes out. Hope to be back to myself again tomorrow. Until then, pull up a vodka, sit down next to Your Aunt Becky and tell her what’s going on with YOU, Pranksters.

Now I should start by saying that I am not an English Nerd. Before writing on The Internet, I was all science, all the time. I had (have) grand plans of going BACK to science as soon as humanly possible. I’ve not taken more English classes than the minimum required to receive my diploma, because, well, I’d rather poke out my eyeballs than read anything Jane Austen ever wrote.

Let’s be honest. Read anything I’ve ever written and you’ll see that blogging is free publishing for a reason: anyone can do it.

That said, I’ve clearly turned into an Old Fart. When I heard that Oxford English Dictionary had added text-speak to it’s formidable definitions, I got Furious George.

Why?

THEY’RE NOT WORDS.

At the end of March, nine hundred words were added to the famous, respectable Oxford English Dictionary. Including “LOL,” which, for those of you living under a rock, means “laughing out loud.” According to justifications by the Dictionary Maker People, LOL is okay to add because it once stood for “little old lady.” RIGHT, Oxford English Dictionary People, play the Little Old Lady Card so I can’t call you out on your bullshit. Who can POSSIBLY be angry at a Little Old Lady?

This blogger. Right here.

See, Oxford English Dictionary Makers, I see nonsense text-crap like “LOL” and “OMG” and those weird heart symbols all over the place. They annoy me. More than mayonnaise. Rather than stand united in our hatred of pointless acronyms like I’d expect, you bowed down and added A HEART SYMBOL (that I can never properly make which is part of the reason I hate it) TO THE DICTIONARY.

This is not okay.

First we have to accept microblogs like The Twitter and The Tumbler because people “didn’t like to read words,” and now IMHO (“in my honest opinion”) is there, right next to real words like “infarction” and “imbecile.”

Guilt me with your Little Old Ladies all you want; there’s very little that will get me off your ass for this disgusting, horrifying mutilation of the English Language, Oxford English Dictionary.

Unless, of course, you add me to the dictionary, too, under “full of the awesome.” Then we’ll be BFF again.

Back in 2003, The Daver, being The Daver, saw the Discman I used on the train to and from school. He felt sorry for me, my pathetic Discman and collection of badly scratched CD’s.

(don’t ever loan me a CD)

He kindly gave me this:

It was the first generation iPod, 40 gigs of swinging death in a neat, cigarette-box of a case. It was also WAY over my head. I had no idea what a “gig” was if it wasn’t a band show, and the idea of putting music in a cigarette box made me suspicious.

But I fell in love with it.

I had it until The Daver took it back for some reason or another (I’d probably scratched it or something). I replaced it with this:

They’d been out of the green iPod mini I’d wanted, so instead I got the pink one, waggling my tongue at The Daver, whose iPod was now twice the size of my sleek Mini.

Last year, I decided that it was high time for a NEW iPod; the Nano. A chorus of “what the fuck’s?” met me when I showed off my new purchase. I do, of course, have an iPhone which neatly serves as an iPod as well.

I waggled my tongue maturely at the nay-sayers and explained that it was mostly for working out. The iPhone AND the iPod Mini weighed like 97 pounds and really, I couldn’t charge the damn Mini anymore. No power cord.

I’ve used it every day since. Beaten the shit out of it. Planned to continue beating the shit out of it because, well, the first two iPods still work. They’re like magic. The Nano, I figured, would last me forever.

I pictured us running off into the sunset together, me and my Nano. That is, of course, until my crotch monkeys left it in a puddle of bubbles on Sunday, sabotaging our relationship. Possibly, my life.

Dona nobis pacem, Blue Nano.

Rest in Peace.

*cries*

*weeps*

*wails*

*flops about the house*

*mopes*

….

….

…

Oooh! I can buy a SNAP BRACELET HOLDER for the new iPod.

On second thought, maybe I’ll buy my kids a pony instead of disowning them.

Before I became a mother, before I became Student Nurse Becky, before I became Your Aunt Becky, I was something else entirely.

(no, not a mail-order bride)

(like anyone would pay for that)

I was a waitress. Well, before that, I was a hostess and after I turned twenty-one, I bartended, too. In fact, working in restaurants is the only thing besides blogging that I’ve managed to do for more than a couple of months.

There was something electrifying about working in a place where so many people had to work in unison to achieve a common goal: namely, make as much money as possible with the least amount of effort. Of course, there was much effort involved. Carrying trays of hot food, trying to keep it on your shoulder, not trip over other servers while avoiding the crotch parasites that were always underfoot during the dinner rush.

The Us VS Them attitude (staff versus customers) united the lot of us. Didn’t matter who you were or where you came from, so long as you weren’t a jackass to the other servers.

You have some assbag at Table 65 staring you down because the kitchen fucked up your order and it’s late, and you get why they’re mad, but it’s not ACTUALLY your fault, but you can’t really explain that to them, because it sounds like a classic case of “pass the buck, SERVER EDITION?”

Send your friend, the one who can heap on the fake-sweetness without seeming insincere, over with their food when it pops up.

I worked in restaurants from the moment I turned 16 to age 23. The hours were flexible, which meant I could work weekends, and I’d make more money in a couple of hours than I’d make working all day in retail.

After work, the servers would sit around, drinking and shooting the shit. The sense of camaraderie made all of the bullshit we’d put up with worth it. We were an instant party, hitting up the bars that served late after we’d closed down. If you needed something; anything, you could count on the staff helping out. I have no doubt that if I’d murdered someone, my work friends would be there with black garbage bags and shovels to help bury the body. Without question.

Being a server also meant we fucked around a lot. There was the Pizza Suit we’d all take turns running around the restaurant wearing, the beers we’d sneak into the cooler and chug and this, the best thing ever.

This was the picture I’d carefully taped onto the front of my server’s book. I have to wonder how many people wondered what the fuck was wrong with me (more than normal). I’d never mention the picture to my tables, it was just THERE.

I stopped serving when I realized I was burnt out. Being asked for another Coke would be enough to set me off. I’d seethe as I handed them the Coke I’d ALREADY POURED.

HOW DARE YOU ASK ME FOR SOMETHING I ANTICIPATED?

But before I left, I learned how important tips are for a server.

In Illinois, at least, I made $3.29 an hour, minus 10 cents each hour for food (company policy). That $3.29 was taxed to DEATH, as the government assumed we’d make cash tips.

That meant that most of the “paychecks” I got were between two and four dollars. Every two weeks.

Occasionally, I’ve lamented that I never actually framed the checks I’d received for $0.00. Asinine. The company had PAID to print said check.

Hil-arious.

As a blogger, I never expected to make money. I do the occasional freelance thing, but the concept of “money” and “blogging” seemed as odd as blogging, itself.

I’d joined BlogHer ad network awhile ago and was content until I noticed my checks grow smaller and smaller as my readership increased.

Huh. Inversely proportional ad network?

I dropped them once the checks grew so abysmal that I was actually offended.

Anyway, last week, I got my final check.

I am SO framing that.

Dear My Aunt Becky,

I am in my late 20’s and a virgin.  This is not something that has happened intentionally.  I am not saving it for marriage or anything like that.  It just hasn’t happened yet.

I have recently started dating someone.  We have gone on four dates, the most ever with one person for me.  I really like him, and kind of want to jump him.  The thing is, I feel like at my age I should know far more then I am going to. So I am torn.  Do I tell him of my condition before the fact?  I am concerned that if I do, I will scare him off, but if I don’t, he will just think I am exceptionally bad in bed, and it will scare him off.

What’s a girl to do?

As someone who has, in her day, had The Sex with people who did not deserve to stick their naughty bits in my own, I think that being a virgin is kinda awesome.

I’d be willing to bet that anyone who likes you will appreciate that about you.

If I were in your shoes, I’d go the honesty route. If it scares him off, fuck him. There is NOTHING shameful about being a virgin. Really, then he’ll know how to make sure your first time is special.

I bet he’ll find it charming.

Do let us know what you decide, Dear Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky.

So this may not be a totally unusual situation but I need answers. The other day my friend turned 35 and was the recipient of lots of love and adoration. Her hubby and friends threw her a surprise party and he surprised her with a beautiful bracelet. I am green with envy..

I’m several years older than her and have been married for 13 years, my no good lazy asshole hubby has never surprised me.

What should I do to attain my life long dream of having someone throw my a surprise party and shower me with adoration and gushing for just one night?

Yours,

Unappreciated of South GA.

Here’s my advice: tell your husband what you want. In no uncertain terms: “I’d like you to a surprise party sometime, like my friend had. That would mean a lot to me.”

I know, I KNOW, it kinda defeats the purpose of a “surprise” party, but honestly, some members of BOTH sexes (myself included)(I have a vagina, just in case you were curious) can be pretty thick about that stuff. I’d, for one, be shocked if someone had been pining for a surprise party. Why? I’d rather saw off my toes than have one thrown FOR me.

Maybe that’s how your husband feels about them.

Also: some people are more thoughtful than others. Sounds like your friend’s husband is particularly thoughtful, which is a win for her, but hard to watch when you live with someone who isn’t.

Clue him in, see what happens.

And, if all else fails, go the Aunt Becky Route: throw yourself a party, buy yourself something exorbitantly sparkly and enjoy it because you bought it yourself.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I started watching Grey’s Anatomy last season so I don’t know whether it’s just the actress who plays Meredith or whether this is done on purpose but (excuse any spoilers) she doesn’t seem to be very upset about her miscarriage, neither does Derek for that matter.

I mean, she miscarried at an incredibly traumatic time for her but she seems to be very que sera about it.

Derek asked why didn’t she tell him so he could help her to get through it, but the line made it sound like she was already over it. And this was in the second episode!

A couple of weeks ago I was on your fabulous new website Band Back Together and i was truly touched by the stories I read from some women who did miscarry.

I don’t have any kids and I haven’t ever had a miscarriage so I’m curious about Merdith’s portrayal of her storyline and was wondering whether you could shed some light on it for me.

Is it just bad acting? Or is it just different for different people?

This is me, treading VERY lightly and asking other Pranksters to weigh in.

I’ve had two miscarriages in my life, back-to-back, actually, right before I got pregnant with Amelia. At the time it happened, it was a horrible hormonal roller coaster. When I got pregnant the third month in a row and started spotting right away, I flipped my shit. My progesterone, which hadn’t been a problem in previous pregnancies, was low. Insert suppositories, pray for the best. It was touch and go.

In that way, my miscarriages were traumatic for me during my pregnancy with Amelia.

While I experienced those two early miscarriages, I was sad. Now, I rarely think about them.

That sounds cold, but I don’t mean it that way. I got my daughter out of it. She wouldn’t be here without having had those two miscarriages.

Since I’m the last person on the planet to watch Grey’s Anatomy, I’m not sure what her reaction to the miscarriage was, but different people handle things differently. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve a loss – any loss.

—————-

I’ll be VERY interested to hear your reactions to these questions, Pranksters.

Last summer, during the Great Bush-Whacking escapade, I spent quite a bit of time perusing the Serial Killer Section of the Hardware Store. I had to buy the proper supplies to remove the eleventy-million bushes that had taken over my yard; making me look like some creepy (ier) shut-in who probably killed people in her very secluded (looking) house.

I figured that anyone who spent as much time as I did ogling shovels and pickaxes was probably carefully watched by the FBI as a Potential Serial Killer. (if they’d seen the bushes in front of my house, they’d have redoubled their efforts to apprehend me)

Sadly, I’m not a serial killer. In fact, the pickax I’d so lovingly bought nearly broke both of my ankles when I tried to use it. I should know by now that I’m not coordinated to be a serial killer.

(insert awkward segue)

After my daughter was born so sick in 2009, I developed a pretty serious case of PTSD and PPD and probably some other acronyms, too. One of the ways I combated my misery was to buy myself flowers every week.

You may want to sit down for this.

Ready?

READY?

Good.

I’m an avid gardener.

I know, I know, you’re shocked. Everyone always is, especially since I’m such an awkward cook and a poor excuse for a female, but it’s true. Gardening is one of my favorite things to do.

My daughter was born in January and my garden covered in thick Ass Cold Chicago snow so there was no way I’d be able to get outside and tend to my plants. Seeing those beautiful cut flowers every week cheered me up intensely.

One week, while at the grocery store about to select this week’s batch of flowers, I came across a mysterious-looking plant.

An orchid.

(my first orchid as it is today)

Despite having roses that tower over me, I’d never tried to grow plants indoors, but at $15 – cheaper than the bouquets I normally bought – I figured I’d give it a shot.

But, like anything I set my mind to, rather than just enjoy that one orchid, I painstakingly researched the orchid family, learning about temperatures, light, and humidity levels. I poured over books, websites; anything I could get my grubby hands on.

I wasn’t going to grow orchids, I was going to Grow Orchids. Perhaps even Grow MotherFUCKING Orchids.

I started An Orchid Collection. Rather than buy cut flowers that would invariably die in a very stinky heap, instead, I combed hardware stores and greenhouses for these beautiful, exotic tropical plants.

Soon I had not one, not two, but a metric fuckton of orchids.

(This picture was taken a year and a half ago.)

In that year and a half, I learned more about orchids than any normal person should. In fact, I have grand plans to GO to an orchid show, but that’s mostly to see what kinds of people attend orchid shows. Are they like Dog Show People? I saw Best In Show, and I’m anxious to find out what Orchid People are like.

Believe me, I’ll take ridiculous pictures and show you.

After my painstaking research, I realized that I needed More Cowbell Light. I had The Daver build me a Light Box, which meant ANOTHER trip to the Hardware Store for Grow Lights and various other things. You know what MOST people use Grow Lights for, right?

Exactly.

The cashier looked at me and giggled as he rang up my lights. Like, “I can’t believe this lady grows The Pot.”

(SPOILER ALERT: I DON’T)

But I AM a bit, uh, compulsive, so I kept buying orchids. (you shut your whore mouth)

(those are the same orchids today)

Soon I outgrew the lightbox and started a second table of orchids.

Earlier this week, for my second table of orchids, I bought another Grow Lamp. And since we all know what Grow Lamps are REALLY for, and because the Grow Lamps are sitting in front of my windows, I know one thing:

It’s only a matter of TIME before the FBI breaks down my door, looking for my Mary-J stash.

Man, won’t THEY be disappointed. Maybe I should bake them a cake.

On second thought, maybe not.