Confessions

It’s me, Jenny. Remember? Alright, you probably don’t—I didn’t go to church last Sunday, or the Sunday before that. I have a legit excuse! The people of Fargo, or at least the ones that live right off South University, needed their fried chicken, Baby Swiss, and Genoa salami, or Sunday dinner would be an utter disaster. You know? I know you know.

I guess I’m writing right now to catch up a little—you know, TALK. I’ve got bones to pick. First of all, let me get this off my chest: I’ve been using far too much toilet paper for my own good. I know, it’s rough, but it’s cold season and I’ve got to blow my nose with something. You understand.

I suppose I’ve some more ‘fessing up to do. Well, okay. My bread says “Best before Oct 9” and I’m still eating it. It’s easy, you just pick around the little green fuzz. You’re cringing? You’re cringing. Please. It all tastes the same to me anyway and I’m still trying to compensate for tossing out an entire package of tofu. Also, I drink straight from the orange juice bottle, and the gallon of milk, for the love of not dirtying another dish. But only when no one is looking. Forgive me, Father.

There’s more. I raid my sister’s closet three times a day and often wear her nice perfume, because my old stuff is starting to reek like pollution—which is funny, because I always thought that Ralph Lauren was classier than that. I also thought my sister was clever enough to catch on, and I’m sure she has. Matter of fact, she’s probably been raiding my closet, too. Possibly even wearing my underwear (which, in my book, is totally unforgivable, but then again I’m not high and mighty).

Lastly:

Of course I practiced my techno robot dance moves in the mirror last night. I always do.

Take care and be well, Y’all.

PEACE.

jc