Dear Diary,
I don't know why this story gives me just a little bit of satisfaction. Maybe everything's not so perfect over there after all. It's sort of like finding out that there are in fact thousands of fat women in France, but they make them all live in seclusion. Whatever, I still want to live there.
Diary, I think we may be white trash. It's been slowly evolving. Here are the disturbing signs:
- huge pile of concrete blocks in the driveway
- barking dogs
- cigarette butts on the front porch
- smashed-up car parked in front (that's my li'l honda!)
Also, we often come home to find flyers on our porch, "Foreclosure? Lost your job and can't pay your mortgage? We'll buy your house in CASH, no questions asked!" I don't think they leave those flyers on nice-looking houses.
We're trying, Diary. Honest. But the thing is, the BHE and I have become very spiritual and are no longer concerned with our physical surroundings. Krishna Krishna, Hari Hari or whatever.
OK, not really. We're just lazy slobs.
Love,
Fluffy
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