Mary Tyler Moore was a saint!

I was gonna sleep. But then I realised sleep was for wombats, bats and zubats. And yes, of course, owls.

So instead I'm awake (for a little while longer anyway) and I'm gonna bore you all again. I say all, I really just mean any randomers who fall into the pit of peril that is this blog. You've been a warned!

*Laugh interval*

My dad emailed me today. Not funny I hear you yell? A bit lame and watery, almost timid? Ha! Well, you've clearly never received an email from Howard Wade (I'm not gonna even point out any funnies to his name, the fact alone my dad wasn't given a middle name is really just blind luck. I'm pretty sure though that Vincent would have suited snuggly, almost nestled even inbetween them.)
Back to the funnies though. My dad, who granted left school at 15 (back in 1923) never was good at spelling, so one wasn't surprised by the error by my papa when he spelt hungry as Hungary. Good times all. My dad is a saint. He brings smiles to the faces of all. Unless you're a rock. You may well then not even have a face. Or toes.

*Ground breaking record alert*

My breakisant I had a bowl of cereal, milk, no sugar. a pan o chocolat, not spelt that way. And a fry up, 2 bacon, 2 bread, 2 butter. butter wrapped into bread. bread wrapped around bacon. Eaten with nibbling bites. 1 sausage. 2 fried bread (french bread to me but I guess I'm wrongle. And alsooooo, 2 eggs. Fried. No less.

I later died that day with a heart attack.



Or did I?!


There's not much else to say really. I'm back at uni. Gonna play pool with friends tomorrow. It may well be the best day of my life if Bill Paxton turns up. Fingers crossed.


Much love to the one random person who read this. Thankyou *wipes away a tear*

:D

Bon