I can’t go to Starbucks anymore

STARBUCKS! People love Starbucks. Me? I like it. Not bad. Some of their mocha-y shits make my belly hurt and give me that nasty tooth fuzz feeling but overall, yeah they’re pretty good. Decaf iced latte with extra sugar here, iced chai tea there. I fuxs with them.

The last time I went to Starbucks was on Christmas Eve. My li’l fam was headed up to my sister’s house to spend the day, and my mans and I wanted some pick-me-ups on the way. The drive-thru line was insane, total fuckin’ loserville—

Oh wait, a brief digression: A few months ago, I was in a long drive-thru line at Dunkin’ Donuts. While idling in my enormous dumbass van, a man with long luscious brown hair and wearing a sleeveless T-shirt rode up on his bike (that looked like a chopper motorcycle) and started doing circles around the drive-thru line. My windows were down because it was nice out, and I heard him shouting, “LOOK AT THIS FUCKIN’ LOSERVILLE! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?” And now I will forever call drive-thru lines “fucking loservilles” because dude was clearly unhinged but also 1000% spot-on, what the fuck was we doing?!??)

OK back to the Christmas Eve story. We weren’t going to sit in Starbucks loserville, so I told Dirt (that’s my husband’s name, Dirt) to pop into the lot and I’d run in, order our drinks in person, and save us some time. Dirt did. I ran in. I ordered our drinks in person. But I did not save us any time.

Turns out that if a drive-thru line is very long, and it’s Christmas Eve in a big ass shopping development, ordering in person at Starbucks will take forever, too. And it’s far worse than sitting in loserville because—rather than breathing in your own germs, in the comfort of your own car—you’re breathing in strangers’ germs, in the discomfort of a poorly ventilated strip mall Starbucks.

No, who knows, maybe their ventilation is freaking sweet. Could be. Still, there were a bunch of maskless people in there, and who wants covid for Christmas?? Surely not I. I got the impression people were waiting about 20-30 minutes for their orders, so I stepped outside to wait for mine.

There was only one other person waiting for their order, a lady in a mask who looked to be about my age. A kindred spirit! I made conversation.

Me, feigning exasperation: Whoa, crazy in there, huh? What’s up?

Her: Yeah, nuts!

Me: Finishing up some last minute Chwis—uh, Christmas shopping?

Her: No, I finished mine over the summer. I had twins a week ago, so I knew I’d need to get my shopping done early.

Y’ALL! YOU ALL! ALL OF YOU! This woman was out in the world a mere seven days after giving birth to two children! And she was a first-time mom! Homegirl really popped two humans out her belly, brought ’em home, and was already out living her life, drinking Starbucks and everything!!!

When I first became a mom, it was only to one sweet, squealing mandrake, and I still didn’t leave the crib for weeks. Pachinko was torn up, butthole was inside out, body was sleep deprived and amped up on hormones. You might be thinking “Oh blah blah blah cry me river! Tired new mom, tale as old as time, thank u next!” Well, if so, then middle finger to you and your hatin’ ass. Becoming a parent is intense as hell. Except for this ho, I guess.

We chatted some more and she told me that breastfeeding was the hardest part so far because her milk hadn’t fully come in yet. Then I got an idea.

An awful idea.

Mama Mungus got a wonderful, awful idea.

Her: And you know, there’s two of them, so I need double the milk.

Me: Ugh, yeah that must be wicked hard. Well—if you want it—I have a bunch of milk in my freezer. My daughter won’t really take bottles, so I haven’t used anything I’ve pumped. It’s yours for the taking!

And that was it. The conversation stopped. Neither of us said another word.



Start earning money

I logged in today because I want to blog more regularly. I know I’ve said that before but this time I’m really gonna try—I read some article about staving off Alzheimer’s and it said that people who have more analytic/complex jobs are better off. My job isn’t at all analytic and neither is this blog obviously HAHA but look, here I am talking about staving! That’s a hell of a word! You go, brain.

Anyway, I logged in and was greeted with this great big banner about making money off my blog. I write about throbbing hemorrhoids, saggin tiddies, regenerating pachinkos—imagine me asking someone to pay me for that??? Criminal.

Collect payments in exchange for details about your skin issues and inverted nips!!!!

In conclusion, I am not going to try to monetize this trash blog. However, I am going to bring you some more quality content. Potential forthcoming blog topics include:

  • Dunkin Donuts Wake-Up Wraps
  • Bug bites

Thank you.

Hemming and hawing

I wasn’t going to write about my pregnancy hemorrhoids but then “hemming and hawing” came to me this morning and I thought, who am I to deny fate? So here’s a post about my butthole.

If I had to choose a theme song for the past couple of months, it would be Busta Rhyme’s Light Your Ass on Fire. That is because MY ASS HAS BEEN ON FIRE for the past couple of months.

I’ve had mild hemorrhoids for most of my adult life. Who hasn’t? An itch here, a smear of blood there, big deal! A few years ago I made an appointment to go to the doctor’s because I had this weird bump on my knee where I’d gotten hit with a softball. (I don’t play softball—I was just helping a friend so her team didn’t have to forfeit a game. What a bad, bad sport grown-up softball is. Softballs ain’t soft! Out-of-shape adults have no business hitting and throwing hard ass balls at each other!) Anyway, I made an appointment and my doctor wasn’t available so I had to see a different one, Dr. H.

Dr. H was the coolest. She was the doctor for an Olympic-gold-medal-winning team, and so nice, and so helpful. SO helpful indeed, that after she ultrasounded my knee and confirmed it was a clump of scar tissue or something from getting hit from that piece of shit softball!!!!, she asked if I needed help with anything else. I was in the middle of a bloody b-hole bout, so I decided to bring it up.

Me: Now that you ask… I think I have a hemorrhoid but I’m not 100% sure.

Dr. H: Well your uncertainty is easily remedied! Roll on over and pull down them pants.

Me: Oh.

I rolled over and pulled down my pants.

Me: Aghh this is really gross. I am so, so sorry.

Dr. H: I know, this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. But I look at buttholes all the time, doesn’t even faze me. Yup, congratulations. You have a hemorrhoid!

And that was the extent of it. At my next checkup, my primary care doctor saw it on my chart and brought it up. For some reason I thought he might want to take a gander at it too? I asked him and he politely declined. HAHAHAHA of course he did. Being a doctor must suck.

Since then, I’ve lived in a happy state of mild hemmy flare-ups. Until I started having kids.

After giving birth to my son my undercarriage was in, um, some disarray. There were tears and rips and stitches and things even the doctors didn’t recognize, along with some popped hemorrhoids. To say I was uncomfortable would be an understatement.

I always assumed it was all pachinkal related—the tears and whatnot. NOT SO! That was all hemorrhoidal, my friends! I now know that because I popped a humungous hemorrhoid a couple months ago and my downstairs felt the same as it did post-birth. My god. Who knew a throbbing purple grape coming out of your butt could cause so much agony?! I was nearly incrapacitated.

I was sure it wouldn’t go away until after I give birth, but it only took a week and a decent amount of blood loss before it started feeling somewhat normal. I believe the grape has shrunk and just become part of my b-hole topography. I’ve since popped another, smaller hemorrhoid that isn’t nearly as painful, but still requires careful treatment.

My treatment plan, which is the same advice you read/hear everywhere:

  • A few times a day (certainly after any pooping takes place), soak butt in hot water for 10ish minutes
  • After soaking, fold a soft ice pack in half then stick in buttcrack, between pants and underpants
  • After icing, stick a witch hazel pad in buttcrack and leave it for a while

I don’t mess with Preparation H because I’ve used it before and don’t notice that it does anything, and it’s gross to apply.

 Happy hemorrhoiding!

P.S. I FaceTimed my mom before posting this to ask if it was too gross to talk about hemorrhoids, and she was outside and her 65-year-old friend/neighbor heard me and said “I GET ‘EM TOO, THEY’RE NO FUN.”

What my toddler eats in a day

Back in my Instagram days—so like a month ago—I used to love those “what my toddler eats in a day” posts.

One, because I like food.

Two, because I like getting ideas for food.

Three, because I like to see how my kid’s diet compares to other kids’ diets.

I stopped looking at those posts because of that last point there, number three. My son—a super fly 2-year-old who I’ll call Mr. T—eats pretty well, I think. For example, he had an egg for breakfast the other day. That’s good, right!? But he sure as hell don’t eat three pieces of tofu, organic beans, and a broccoli and salmon smoothie everyday (or ever). And it seems like that’s all these Instagram influencers feed their children.

So I’m going to list out Mr. T’s daily diet because… I want to, mostly. Nobody else cares. Maybe it’ll encourage me to feed him better? Cause two nights ago he basically only had a glass of orange juice for dinner and then was out of his mind hyphy for like, three hours. Are sugar highs real? I don’t know. I’m no nutritionist. But no matter!

Yesterday, he ate:

  • Grapes
  • Few bites of a raspberry fig bar that he carried around for an hour and called a burger
  • Half a blueberry waffle
  • Orange juice (shit)
  • Slice and a half of American cheese
  • Banana
  • Orange
  • A very large strawberry
  • Baby carrots
  • Half a peanut butter sandwich (whole wheat!)
  • Half a chocolate croissant (not whole wheat!)
  • Some whole milk
  • Half a fruit leather

Midday note: It’s now 2pm. Is that too much food? Too many snacks? Damn, sure seems like it. The two of us is just jungry all the effing time. 

  • More baby carrots
  • Bath water
  • Broccoli
  • Yellow pepper
  • Significant amount of ranch dressing
  • Beef pizza with onions and olives (sounds disgusting right? we all succumbed to near debilitating gas afterwards and Curtis claimed my burp was “one of the nastiest things I’ve ever smelled in my life”)
  • One Godiva chocolate
  • A couple sips of whole milk

OK, the end. That was good. Thanks for reading.

Oh wait, one more thing—my son has a wicked old pediatrician (he was also my pediatrician when I was a kid) and at every checkup, his doctor tells me to make sure I’m feeding him chopped beef every day. That’s what he says. “Make sure to give him a little bit of chopped beef every day. You can serve it with whatever he likes. Mayonnaise, ketchup, whatever. He needs to eat furry animals for the iron.” Do other pediatricians prescribe that??

What’s This: Round Two

I had an OB/GYN appointment the week after I posted that blog about my weird undercarriage. I wasn’t planning on asking my doctor what’s the deal with my pachink, but curiosity got the better of me. After my doctor smeared my pap—aka stuck a double-sided shoehorn in my cervix and scraped it with a chimney brush—I gently broached the subject.

Me: Hey, um, so… I’ve got a weird question.

Doctor, stepping out of her HAZMAT suit: Cool, I like weird stuff. ‘Tis why I spend all day checking in on strangers’ downstairs. What’s up?

Me: When I finished pushing my baby human out last year, the doctors said something about my… flaps? They was like, “What’s that? IDK but I was gonna snip it off lol.” Any idea what they were talking about?

Doctor: Hmm.

Me: Yes, hmm! That’s effed, right?

Doctor: Pretty effed. Maybe it was *some medical term I don’t remember.* If I’d been there, I probably would’ve pulled that out with a pair of forceps.

Me: OK thank you for that information SEE YA LATER BYE.

That’s actually what my doctor said: that she didn’t know either, but it was probably some indecipherable medical term, and then that she would have “pulled it out with forceps.”

This seemed absurd to me. That a doctor might nonchalantly pluck an extra bodily appendage off a ho with a set of forceps. I asked my mom if it seemed absurd to her too. She hemmed and hawed for a minute, then told me that her doctor once found an extra pachinkal part on her too.

“Oh yeah,” says my mom. “After I gave birth to one o’ y’all, my doctor mentioned some dangling hangle or another. She said I could ‘tease it out’ later on. So that’s what I ended up doing. Not that hard.”


I’m so sorry for the overabundance of passion and punctuation but holy shit, why did I not learn about this in health class? I know all about gonorrhea and, like, wet dreams (gross) but ain’t no one ever told me that at some point during my life I’ll probably grow a couple extra haginas.

Who knew!

What’s This?

I haven’t written anything in almost a year because I don’t think I’m funny anymore. I once thought I was kind of funny, maybe even actually funny, and now I do not. I’m just your average awful middle-aged mom, wiping down countertops and changing diapers and being unfairly demanding of my loved ones and judgmental of my neighbors. I’m a boring ole biddy who can’t live up to her older, funnier self.

At least that’s what I thought. But I just went back and read some random posts from 2011 to 2015 and HOLY. Not good, not funny, only embarrassing. Do you know how grand a relief that is? To know that I was never that funny at all?! I feel liberated. Free to blog to my heart’s content, with no fear of failing short of any expectations. Congratulations to me!

With that happy news, I’d like to finally share a story I’ve wanted to tell for a while. The point of this story is strictly to bring shame upon my family—particularly my brother-in-law who was embarrassed by my last post about my boobs. IF YOU THOUGHT THAT WAS BAD, YOU’LL BE ESPECIALLY UPSET TO LEARN THAT… 

I have a weird vaghina.

Quick editor’s note: I’m mostly going to use euphemisms and made-up/misspelled words to refer to my *downstairs* because I don’t want this post to show up in too many questionable Google searches.

OK, again: I have a weird vaghina.

I only found this out about a year ago, which is very surprising when you consider I’m a 30-year-old who’s had countless OB/GYNs check me out over the past decade or so. Actually, I will try to count them.

  • Blonde lady gynecologist who only ever made small talk about ticks
  • Old man gynecologist who told me I had a VERY COMMON, NOT STD rash around (not on!) my nether regions
  • First obstetrician who had hideous clavicle tattoos and talked to me with a mouth full of food, the disgusting idiot
  • Second OB, excellent and extremely tiny
  • Random OB when the tiny one wasn’t available
  • Another random one
  • One more random one
  • Dude OB with a nose ring who confirmed my water broke

That’s eight doctors. Eight doctors who have all seen hella pachinkos in their lives. Eight doctors who spent many years and hundreds of thousands of dollars studying them. These mofos probably take continuing education courses on, like, labias and pubic hair every year. And yet not a one of them ever told me that my pachinko looks different than most.

It wasn’t until moments after pushing out a small human, while simultaneously trying to attach his squirming mouth to my nipple and also getting my shredded undercarriage stitched up with a needle and thread, that anyone ever thought to mention it. 

And the only reason I learned about it then is because there were two doctors down there—the resident who was practicing her backstitch and the incredibly mean on-call doctor who was teaching her—and they remarked on it amongst themselves. Here’s an excerpt from that moment in time:

Nurse, helping me breastfeed: OK, now, pinch your tiddy like this and shove it in there just… like… that! Oh, poo. Your nipple’s inside out.

Baby, crying: Who are you? Where is this? What is that? Why is world? When is how?

Doula, taking pictures: *Snap* *Snap* *Snap* We can crop out the blood! Your boobs look huge! *Snap* *Snap*

Baby Daddy, losing steam: Great job! You did so good! Cool if I take a nap before the Pats come on?

Doctor, instructing: All right, now stick the pointy end right through that dangling piece there.

Resident, stitching: Oops!

Doctor: No not that piece, this torn one here.  

(What follows, unfortunately, is verbatim)

Resident: Got it. And what’s this?

Doctor: Not sure. I was going to get rid of it, but since she came with it I figured we’d leave it.

Resident: OK.


And that’s it! That’s how I found out I have something extra down there? I have no idea. I wanted to follow up on that fun revelation but I was distracted by, u know, my brand new human and all the sharp instruments and hands poking around my ripped apart fajina.

I never even thought to follow up with my own doctor (the tiny, good one) when I saw her a few weeks after that for my post-delivery checkup. She took a gander down under, called it “beautiful” (HAHAHAHAH I wish I were kidding; she was talking about the healing but still, wicked gross), and then sent me on my way.

I finally got brave enough to take a mirror down there a couple months ago and I gotta say it is, um, pretty weird looking. Like, maybe a rogue flap or two? Or just heavy-duty asymmetry? I really, truly don’t know. I’m not interested in doing a Google search to compare it against more conventional hoohas. I mean—mine works, right? I got a really, really excellent baby out of it. We good!

Confused with mountains

Big boobs.

Dog, my boobs are so big. They were pretty big before I had a baby, and then I had a baby, and holy smokes. I would say I had mom boobs before I became a mom, and since becoming a mom they’re more like grandma boobs. My boobs look like Mrs. Doubtfire’s except approximately six thousand times saggier. I wish I had Mrs. Doubtfire’s boobs.

And breastfeeding! Most of the time breastfeeding is messy but convenient, until you go a little longer than normal without nursing and suddenly your boobs fill with coal and shattered glass and your nipples erupt and you have to spend a full 24 hours nursing, pumping, punching, squeezing, and burning your boobs.

There’s so much I want to say about boobs and breastfeeding. But I have a little baby and I don’t sleep that much, so I have neither the time nor the brainpower to form like, a cohesive story or anything. So here are several unrelated boob thoughts—


Like I already said, my boobs are rather saggy. They’re also really dense. The lactation consultant at the hospital actually called them substantial, as in: “You can’t expect that baby to hold up those substantial breasts up on his own! You got some heavy, floppy tiddies, girl.” But because they are so heavy, and so floppy, I can stick a lot of things underneath them.

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Here’s a list of actual things I have successfully carried between my boobs and ribs, and the difficulty rating in doing so (1 is easy, 10 is hard).

  • My cell phone – rating: 1
  • A TV box (also known as a remote control) – rating: 1
  • A 350-page novel – rating: 1
  • A can of diced tomatoes – rating: 3
  • A half-full bottle of wine – rating: 4
  • An L.L.Bean boot – rating: 6
  • An acorn squash – rating: 5

Things I could not carry:

  • A whole pineapple (hurt pretty bad to try, actually)


My baby and I read Dr. Seuss’s One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish a lot because it’s a dope book. I re-wrote the Gox poem (“I like to box. How I like to box!”) to be about breastfeeding.

I need to pump. 
How I need to pump!
So, every day,
I pump my lumps.

Then I dump.
I pump my lumps.
I pump and then
take a lump pump dump.

This poem is symbolic of my need to pump out my oversupply of milk every day, and how also breastfeeding makes me poop. I come so, so close to pooping my pants most days now.


When my milk came in a couple days after giving birth, I felt shaky and achy and had a low-grade fever. I called up the doctor and we agreed that I couldn’t have mastitis (infected tiddy) already because my boobs didn’t hurt and I barely had any milk yet.

Turns out I had milk fever, which is when you get a little feverish when your milk comes in. But if you Google “milk fever,” you will find that almost all of the results are about cows and goats and other barnyard mommas.

Screen Shot 2019-04-07 at 8.13.09 PM

“…and shuffling of the hind feet”

Milk fever is primarily seen in dairy cattle but can also be seen in beef cattle and ALSO ME, YER GIRL.


When I lie flat on my back, my boobs flop to either side. I could easily nurse two babies at the same time. Send your babies to me, I’ll nurse em.

(For real, why not? Pumping sucks, I got too much milk, and wet nurses used to be a thing! But your babies probably won’t want me milk. We went away for the weekend and I didn’t bring my pump, and my baby slept the entire time, and my boobs went out of control. I tried to get my niece babies to help an auntie out and they tweren’t having it. When I offered my boob they were.so.creeped.out. It was kind of funny, to see such confusion and terror on the faces of sweet babes. Also a little insulting. LIKE WUT, MY MILK AIN’T GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU??)


Actually, I tried my own milk and I think it would’ve been perfectly good enough for them. I’ve drank the milk of thousands of cows I don’t even know—why wouldn’t I try my own!?! It was fine. Sweet and watery.

I may not love the way these boobs of mine look, but I’m pretty thankful for the sweet and watery melky cabrera that comes out of them and feeds my baby so good. So, thank you, flopping tiddies o mine.


Bunny Killer

The other day at the vet’s office, I ran into a woman I used to work with at a college. I was in line with my newly toothless dog* and she was at the register, waiting to check out.

“Oh, Amy? Amy my former colleague?” I asked, knowing full well that it was indeed Amy my former colleague.

“Hi…” she said HELLA tentatively, very clearly not remembering who I was.

“Amy!” I admonished. “I get that I’m 3.5 years older than the last time I saw you, and many, many pounds heavier, and my face has not quite held up to the past year’s emotions, but YA KNOW ME. I took photos of you for the alumni magazine! I endangered two of your children by taking them off-roading in a golf cart! I helped your husband, the staff farmer, wrangle sheeps!”

She still ain’t recognize me, but she tried to be friendly.

“Yes, right. How are you?” she asked.

“Great,” I answered. “The vet just pulled a bloody broken tooth out of me dog’s smelly head. What’s good with you?” As I asked, I noticed a very petite cat carrier at her feet and deduced there had to be a very petite cat within. I bent down and confirmed it.


“I do!” she nodded, now friendly for real. “Eight weeks old. She’s a bunny killer.”

Chico, my dog, was sniffing the cage and the kitten hissed at him. I pulled him back like, holy shit, that is a goddamn bunny killer in there. I’d never heard of such a thing.

(Note: Most of the previous dialogue was made up, but the following conversation is verbatim.)

“A bunny killer?” I asked. “That’s crazy! How many bunnies has she killed?”

Amy looked at me but didn’t respond, then turned back to the woman behind the counter to finish checking out. I waited a few moments for a lull in their exchange before continuing my interrogation.

“Like, full-grown bunnies or baby bunnies? How does she get to them?”

Again, Amy just looked at me. She seemed confused and I realized that I’d misunderstood her. I was acting as if it was a bad thing, this bunny-killing kitten of hers, but she and her husband were farmers. Bunnies were a nuisance in their world. They probably got this cat specifically to kill bunnies, so they could eat them or something.

“Oooh, did you get this cat specifically to kill bunnies?” I asked.

Again, she looked at me. At this point—maybe three minutes into my questioning—I could tell she definitely didn’t feel like talking about it. BUT THEN WHY BRING IT UP AT ALL, AMY?!?!?

“Wait, so, has she even killed any rabbits yet?” (This time I used “rabbits” instead of “bunnies,” to sound more professional.)

Finally, she answered me.  “You… you keep talking about killing bunnies. But all I said was ‘she’s an itty bitty kitten.’”

“OoOoOoOoOohhhhhhhhhhh,” I said, very embarrassed. “Yes, she is a small cat.”

She finished paying her bill and nodded goodbye and left.

*Here’s a picture of Chico’s mouth.

IMG_9537 copy

People are sharing what happens when you try contacts and it’s somethin’ else*

Before I get into this story—which is really only about my experience with contact lenses (sorry if my title tricked you; that was my intent)—I feel like I should address my nearly yearlong hiatus. There’s usually a point in every blog’s life where its blogger apologizes for not blogging often enough. I am not apologizing, because who the hell cares! Just thought I should mention it. Gonna try to write more, because it’s a better hobby than rewatching blooper compilations on YouTube, but I’ll probably give up pretty quick.

Here goes—

My first introduction to contact lenses was in 2012 or 2013. I’d only been wearing glasses for a year or two when my eldest sister decided it was time I try contacts.

“No thanks, sister,” I said. “I only wear glasses for driving and watching TV. I don’t need contacts.”

“I think you do,” she said.

“I think conversely to the way you think.”

The conversation didn’t go much further because at that point, it had been decided: if I didn’t want to try contacts, then I don’t need permission, make my own decisions, that’s my prerogative then my sister would force me. Which she did. My sister, WHO IS AN EDUCATED, PROFESSIONAL, WORKING MOTHER, chased me around the house, ~grabbed me by the back of the shirt, and stabbed a pair of her contacts into my eyes.

Not surprisingly, the trial didn’t go well. Beyond the fact that she had jabbed plastic into my eyeballs, they were her prescription instead of mine. So not only did they make my vision worse, but—since I have an astigmatism and she doesn’t—they also hurt like a mothertrucking buttcheek on a stick.

Since it’s 2018 and I wear glasses all the time now, I recently decided to give contacts another go. They still suck so much. Why does anyone wear them? It makes me mad that they do.

My problems with contacts:

  1. Very uncomfortable
  2. Very, very hard to put in. It should be easier
  3. Everything is blurry. Stuff should look better
  4. Can’t swim in them (according to my doctor. SO THEN WHAT IS THE POINT!?)
  5. Can’t rub my eyes as intensely as desired, which I would say is medium-intense
  6. Have to wash my hands more often than desired
  7. Can’t wear my glasses and I like my glasses because they’re like jewelry except useful
  8. But when I do wear my glasses, I now notice how the frames push into my face and that makes me pissed

Maybe next my sister will decide it’s time I get Lasik and she will slice off my corneas/burn them with lasers. Will let ya know.

*I plagiarized this blog’s title from a Buzzfeed article because I’m lazy and I think clickbait is funny but maybe also effective? We shall see.

My take on the news

I’ve decided to start blogging about current events. I have a journalism degree PLUS I recently started reading/subscribing to The New York Times. I believe that makes me the most qualified person in the world.

Thinking I’ll do this every day, or a couple times a week, or whenever I feel like it/only this one time. For the inaugural post I’ll do the lead story on nytimes.com. And I’ll always try to do that (the lead story), but I’ll reserve the right to choose something else when I want to.

The all-new Audi S5 Coupe.

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My take: The car looks very shiny and blue, which is excellent, but I’m not sure that’s a real road it’s driving on. This is most likely fake news.