Sometimes I don't speak bright, alright but yet I know what I'm talkin' about. Why can't we be friends?

What's the deal, ok? And no, I'm not speaking of the actual song and what it means but... old friends who weren't, that are now. That are now? Are we really? You don't have to lick my twat or cut my grass. No, those two aren't jokingly related. You really don't have to cut my grass. All it is is just a bunch of sand spur weeds. But you may weed eat it if you want. In the actual sense, I have a weedeater in storage right now. Ok, we're getting off topic.

Why can't we be friends, why can't we be friends, why can't we comment on each others Facebooks, ow!

Or should I say, "Are we really friends, are we really friends, are we really friends?"

Maybe I've had too much Typhoo tea and am soaring on a caffeine high 12 miles in the sky. Yeah, probably.

This is my first blog in a long time and it probably doesn't make too much sense to any of you. It may make sense to one or twenty-two of you but only if you've drank as much English tea as I have. A whole freaking pot. With real sugar. Yeah, I'm chalking it up to that.

So yeah, first blog in awhile and none of you have any idea what I'm talking about nor do you really care. I don't either, but I must in some stupid* way if I'm blogging about it. Whatever that is. Let me say this... "It's ok. I'm gay. I don't want'em anyway. So sit back, relax. Go ahead and take a Xanax." For recreational purposes because you have nothing to worry about.

Ahhh, you're saying to yourselves now. I may see where this is going. Maybe you do. Maybe not. If everyone else can write vague* messages on Facebook then I can write a vague* blog.

Ok, all vagueness gone. Let's get to the real shit. Still have the kid. One of the last times I wrote on this thing it was almost his first birthday. Now, it's almost his second birthday. Terrible two's are among us. Growth spurts as bad as weeds in your spring garden. He loves Caillou though when I showed him the French version of the theme song he looked at me like I had just stuck my thumb up his arse. Complete confusion and horror. Hilarious.

Let's see... I love my iPhone. Totally in love with it. That and instagr.am are the two best things on earth besides my son and the time I showed him the French version of the Caillou theme song. I guess you had to be there for that one and I promised you guys I wouldn't be one of those mommies. Onward soldiers... I may have a very limited budget but I've dedicated myself to sprucing up my wardrobe. It's high time I threw in some variables in there.

Speaking of, I cannot wait until the St. Andrew's Mardi Gras parade. One, I am going to charge for parking in my driveway. Two, I am too excited about the outfits I am putting together for the 2 days of Mardi Gras that good ole Historic St. Andrew's has a parade for. They aren't anything special and in fact, one outfit [friday's, the least significant day] is just an amalgamation of stuff that if I walked out of my house in New Orleans on the REAL Mardi Gras day most people would shout, "Hey, did you walk through your closet blind and pick that out?" I'm trying to say it really has no theme. Saturday's outfit I am trying my hardest to think of something good. I have several ideas but none of those will be revealed in the duration of my decision making. And the final product won't be known until the actual day I wear it. In public. In Panama City. Christians will probably be offended more by Friday's outfit than Saturday's. All in all someone will be offended by either one of them no matter what I wear.

* vague + stupid = same thing = annoying. JUST SAY IT, ASSHOLES!  Though there is an exception to my vagueness in this blog. It may be stupid, but it is not near as annoying as when people do it on Facebook. Stop putting vague messages on your status! Why do you do it in the first place? To make people comment? And when they do; some of you still don't say what the hell it's about. It's like having a fixed gear bike. Gay. [just joking to my friends with fixed gear bikes. but only because you're my friends]

BUT! Speaking of fixed gear bikes... I live across the street from TEK Records and I saw this kid ride his fixed gear bike out of the record store and ride it 5 feet to his truck and then proceed to put it in the back of it. What? You couldn't bike it to the store? Maybe he just wanted to show it off. Whatever the case it is still funny thinking about him driving up, getting out, riding his widdle bikey 5 feet to the door of the store and then do it all over again when he left. Talking about fixed gear bikes made me think of Portlandia. I will have to blog about that next time. Because...

I have to bathe the kid and get him to bed.

Goodnight, jackof--ahem, dear readers.

I keep seeing all these people from all sorts of different countries that are reading my blog. Commit to me, damnit!

Ya herd?

Seriously though... make this lady happy and follow me. I promise I'll post more if you'll follow. The more followers the more they need direction, right? I'm here to direct you. But I can't promise I'll direct you in the right place.

Fire Alarm at Auschwitz Reserve

Ok, so blah blah you get that some jackass from Alabama or Georgia [sorry family] pulled the fire alarm. From accounts of other people who were on their porches, smoking, chilling ect... said they heard laughter and then WHAM! fire alarm. Nonstop, ear motherfucking bleeding and shit screeches. May I also mention the diaper bag that was stolen from me last night. Ehem, moving on...

As luck may have it, no cops were on security duty but alas, a sweet resident volunteer. Excuse me, a moronic fool troll from under a nuclear bridge. And, shall we put it, probably slowed down her golf cart [oooh she has a gooooolf caaarrrt] by 8 miles from all the McDonalds she was shoving down her gullet. A lof of people from the building were out there listening and generally rubbernecking. As was I. Because for fucks sake I live here. I ought to know what's going on. Is the building really on fire? Why the FUCK is it so loud?As a few neighbors gathered in a circle around the "security guard" [damn we had a badass team before all this bullshit.] I stepped forward to tell her, as she was obviously NOT prepared and fumbling around like a goddamn idiot. She didn't know if it were a fire alarm or a free breakfast call from Burger King. So I leaned forward and said "Someone pulled the fire alarm. It was probably a joke." "What? Huh?" "This is the fire alarm"As I am saying so [for fucks sake, politely like the southern woman that i am !] a black dood comes ferociously to my face with his hands doing a "blah blah blah" motion. You know the one. I ignored him until I was full of my show of utter stupidity and I turned to the man.

 "What was that? Why were you so rude and why would you think I would deserve that?"

"Why are you talking?" he say in an increasingly hostile voice.

"What?! Why are you so rude?" 

"Why not?"

"Because we're both humans and we ought to respect each other. What you did to me was inappropriate and I deserve an apology!"

He starts to walk upstairs. And I start to boil.

"Well, FUCK YOU!" 

"FUCK YOU, TOO!" 

"That's anger sir, you are an angry person and I would never want to be you! Yeah, we're all irritated that we had to get up and I've got a one year old who is now awake. Why not be more compassionionate to your neighbors!"

He then slammed the door shut.

I know there is someone on my friends list that works at Auschwitz Reserve and I say... go ahead. Let them see it.

Letting Walker go was the worst thing you've all ever done as a collective business. And I know the HOA is mostly responsible for this, but damn. They had Island Reserve [excuse me, Auschwitz Reserve] under CONTROL. And they were nice, responsible, RESPECTABLE people. I have NEVER been safer when they were around. You FUCKED up. All this and how last night my $80 diaper bag was stolen from my car. Some of you may judge other people by the color of their skin, tattooed or race and that's just sad. We are individuals and we all have a story. A beautiful story. All of us do. And for the record, my I.Q. is 136 and I have read more books than you've taken shits. I know more about the human condition and what we as people ought to be than you've checked the mail. Yeah, I I.Q. dropped but hey... sometimes you have to do it. 

And as for my FB friend, you are definitely not one of those people. You are hilariously fun to be around and I couldn't think of having such a good friend even though we never hang out. You missy, are one of a kind.

When I started this blog I wanted it to be more like my Myspace blog. But there aren't any options to private anything and I have lots of things to private. I'm trying to tell myself to just say "Fuck it!" That those are the best reads. I want more followers to drink my purple kool-aid. You know what I'm sayin'?

Since I'm a reformed heroin addict/pill fiend turned awesome Mom, I want to include all aspects of my life. Both past and present. Both sad and happy. Both sordid and showing of my progression towards even more awesomeness. So I guess I'm going to forgo my original intentions, those of keeping my family members shaded from my past but still include the fact that I am now a mom. A mom who still says fuck and makes dick jokes complete with filthy hand gestures. Why? Because I am truthful. I don't care what anyone thinks and I'm not going to conform to anyones expectations. 

If I want to write a blog about that time I saw a bum shit his pants on Bourbon Street and then proceed to wallow in it, I will. And that will probably be followed by a paragraph or two about how I fed my kid milk for the first time and when he finally expelled it's contents from his ass it smelled like 2 million rat corpses.

I can do that. Why? 

Because this is MY blog and YOU have chosen to read it. 'Cause, you know, there is an 18 and older disclaimer before you have to click before you get here.

Laurel Q. Strange

If you're stupid and you know it don't have babies! If you're stupid and you know it and you really wanna show it buy a dog!

First, my son has finally started to walk. Yay and "Oh no!" would be my choice words and or phrases for that. He's not to the point where I can take him places without a stroller but he sure is making his way around the house. Let me rephrase that. He sure is making a mess around the house. But of course, I am a proud mother. As I am also proud of the past year he and I have been best buddies. Me and my C-sectioned bottlefed baby. I've had so much fun this past year it's incredible. Now, I'm not a pushy mom by NO means. Please don't have one if you don't want one. Also, if you're stupid...do not have one. 


Ok, there should be a "Second" since I started this thing with a "First", but I really don't know what to say. How about this? Does anyone ever read a FB post that makes you want to reach through the computer and slap the ever living shit out of the poster? I do. With that being said. Not all zealots are religious. DO NOT FORCE YOUR OPINIONS ON ME OR MAKE ME FEEL BAD FOR THE DECISIONS I'VE MADE IN MY LIFE OR ANYONE ELSE FOR THAT MATTER. Yes, I know there is an italics button but I'm really yelling this. When I was a heroin addict I didn't run around the French Quarter or post on FB about how awesome and effective heroin is for headaches, stomachaches, shitty neighbors and generally forgetting you yourself exist for some period of time.


And I don't expect you to do it to me. I might be being cryptic here but my child is in no way different than your pussy birthed breastfed child. Did it ever occur to some people that my baby milk depraved child could in any way be smarter than yours? He could very well be the next Einstein or the next assistant manager at McDonalds. But so could yours. Or maybe I had my reasons for doing the things I did. And it wasn't a bad thing. At all. In NO way. And in NO WAY should someone have their feelings hurt for choosing to raise their child the way they want to.

Also, I just finished reading Tina Fey's autobiography and it was pretty awesome. There were two parts I really liked. One, which at first started to piss me the fuck off but then when it ended it came out A+. Two, how Amy Poehler grossed out Jimmy Fallon with a vulgar and "unladylike" [quote tina fey] joke which included hand gestures. Jimmy freaked because it was a woman who was telling the joke. Here are Tina's exact words. "Amy made it clear that she wasn't there to be cute. She wasn't there to play the wives and girlfriends in the boys' scenes. She was there to do what she wanted and she did not fucking care if you liked it."This is where I come in. That is me. I am the girl at the bar [bookstore, grocery store, church, prayer groups, weddings, funerals ect] who is telling the loudest most vulgar hand gesture-y joke you can imagine. I am infamous for big black dick jokes. After reading what Tina Fey said I realized what I already knew. No one wants to see funny femmes making jokes like that. WHY!? I execute them perfectly but alas, they aren't funny unless a man tells them. And this is where I take off the thumb that is holding me down and stick it up your ass.  

Rabble rabble rabble rabble

I tried to post last night but couldn't squeeze anything out of my pathetic tired little brain. Yesterday was my son's first birthday party. Whooo... just as good as a workout at the gym. Best part ever... as my son was digging in his electric blue and green iced cake my second cousin's white-blonde headed daughter walked by and my kid, used to sneak feeding and petting the dog from his high chair, saw her walk by and figured she was the right height with some sort of fur on the top of her head and swiped his iced fingers through her hair. I said to my cousin, "You guys are going swimming after this, right?"

All and all it was fun. But now what to do with all these Christmas toys and birthday toys. I suppose I'll hide the X-mas toys until he gets bored with the new ones and bring out the old ones like they're new. Hopefully, he'll still be young enough to fall for it.

Other than that... well, nothing. Yes, I'm enjoying watching my son grow and learn the things I teach him. Coming from someone who used to think children were only spawned for sweat shops, it's a great feeling and I'm content being here with him. But... there is always a but in life. Nothing is perfect. I can't believe I'm about to type this.. I miss working. Ahh! Yep, I said it.

Having a kid is quite a 180 from where I was at before. I'm old though... at least too old to be staying at bars all night and coming home at noon with strange foliage in my hair. It was time to have a kid. For me anyway. All the puzzle pieces are fitting nicely. So amongst all this cabin fever shite I've decided to go back to massage therapy school. Yeah, I have to go to Haney and not Blue Cliff in New Orleans like I desperately want to but there are no other steps I can take for providing for my little family without becoming a food stamp whore for the rest of my life*. I need a skill that will make me more money than slicing and boxing pizzas for pennies. Next step, school. Learn skill. Graduate. Make the working world my bitch and be proud of myself. That and I'll have accomplished something. Not that I don't feel accomplished molding my son, but I need to do something with myself and Haney is the only place here for MT and it has a daycare so I can check on The Kid between every class. I wonder if they let you do that? Probably not, but at least I know he's close and if I did feel the burning urge to bust up in that bitch it'll be only steps away.

On a good note. I did a lot of writing last night. Just poems and a smattering of words that make sense to me. I need to do this more. Submit my stories. Get it out there. I also want a rejection letter from the New York Post or somewhere equally unobtainable for a female Bukowski. Yes, it'd be nicer for them to print it but hey... let's be realistic.

Side note... I don't post any of the good stuff like I used to. I don't know exactly how many people on Facebook read this and I have a lot of family on FB soooo... I'd rather not subject them to what they would consider a complete horror. These are church goin' folkses here we're talking about. I've already got blocked from my sister's husband, who is a local preacher at a rather large church, block me because I referred to the staples from my C-section as my Frankenpussy. Now I'm blocked from commenting though I've never commented anything rude or sarcastic. I respect all religions. Even the ones that are annoying.

* No, I'm not knocking anyone on food stamps. Hello? Meeee. I am knocking those who leach the system with cash assistance, food stamps and get to sit on their butts all day squatting out babies [the ones who I assume belong in sweat shops]. A little help from the government isn't a bad thing when you need it. Even if you need it for a long time. As long as you aren't bein' a ho.

I should write a real blog.

I'm only writing this to tell you that I will be trying my hardest to write more often. But alas, my son is about to have his first birthday and being the one year old spawn of myself well... if you know me you can guess how hyper he is. And just plain silly.

It's pretty fuckin' awesome, but whew... he sure wears me out. Especially since our day usually starts at 5:30 AM. Which is pretty funny [to me] that only a few years ago I could be found at a bar in New Orleans, still drinking [it's perfectly socially acceptable to be at a bar at that hour] at 5:30 in the morning. And usually wouldn't leave until noon [also socially acceptable].

Ahhh, now I'm reminiscing about the old days. The days were long... sometimes 4 days long. Until I finally ran out of money and crashed on the futon until I could drag myself to school. I shall also add that I, drunk at times, aced every single test I ever took at that place.

Ok, my child is telling me via squeals and angry stomping that it is time for sleep. Whether he gets there or not is up to him. Lawd know's it's not up to me these days. My po' po' teething bebe. And yes, when he teethes he can sometimes become the dreaded Bebe's Kid.

Before I go I must brag, he's an awesome kid. The sweetest of honeysuckle nectar and I love the little monkey.

Dear New Orleans and the word taint.

I wrote this in February of '09 when I was still in Drug Court; my graduation date getting closer. Closer to me getting to visit the only city that will take me as I am. I don't have to conform for New Orleans and neither does anyone else. That is one of the reasons I love it so much there. You can be whoever you want to be and no one will say a damn thing about it. It's the true definition of free. Unfortunately, thieves think the same way about your belongings. But it's worth it to live there. Worth every damn bit of it. And now.... the blog.

I still cry about it, when the mood strikes me. I always cry about it, when I read something in the paper. New Orleans broke my heart and like an abusive lover I can’t seem to get enough of, I always go back. Spiritually, I never left.

And if you think I’m crazy to go back, you don’t know the city like I do. I know the Mississippi River on a boiling summer afternoon, what lies under piles of garbage that sit on the street corner in the French Quarter, I know how to spell Tchoupitoulas, and know what entails getting your po-boy dressed, and I surely know what it means to miss New Orleans. I know the dirty secrets of the Quarter and how to cop dope in the 9^th ward. I know that it’s in my blood like virus. A virus to some, but how I survive living in Florida for the next year.....

New Orleans gives me hope when I feel blue. New Orleans paints me red when I feel saucy. New Orleans feeds me BBQ shrimp when I hunger for her comfort. Sometimes, I scroll through apartment rentals on Craigslist.com and imagine my furniture sitting in the empty space. My furniture which remains in storage in a unit Uptown, a beacon of hope, sure to bring me home.....

I live life with reckless abandon and New Orleans is there along for the ride. Holding my hand and urging me to take one more shot of Jager. She’s gotten me shitfaced, but always held my hair back when I was puking in the street. She’s rode shotgun when I navigate aimlessly through her purple, gold, and green veins. Driving dreamlike through the Garden District, seeing time suspended through vintage eyes. ....

She’s inspired me to write pages and pages of her vibrant beauty like no other in the world. Pages and pages of her sordid and shadowy past, veiled by banana leaves and lace iron fences. Inside closet courtyards, under a moon ripe with passion. I want to take her in my arms and never let go.

~Strange "The Taint" Fruit 

One of the millions of reasons I love New Orleans

In June 2006 I moved back to New Orleans after a 10 month hiatus living in Portland, Oregon. I moved to a quaint albeit tiny...very tiny, studio on Lower Decatur. I could stand in the middle of the room and move and inch one side to the other and be able to touch the walls. I could spit from one end of the apt and the spit would land in the bathroom, on the other end of the apt. Does that give you any idea how small my studio was? Really fucking small.

One morning I stopped at Envie, one of my favorite coffee shops 2 doors down from my cage *ahem* studio apartment. As I walked out with my vanilla latte, I took a left turn on Governor Nicholls and strolled up to the dog park to let Clementine and Captain Murphy run around and do their thang.

Along the way I encountered a man the size of Lou Ferrigno wearing a black leather skirt, a black beret, a long red wig, black silk blouse,  fishnet stockings, 6 inch heels and wielding a riding crop.

As I passed him I looked over to my friend and said "AND THAT... is why I love New Orleans."

Advertisements~Help a single momma out! And please don't pity me. Seriously.

I'm thinking about putting up adverts on my blog. As you know, every time you click on a link I get money. Pretty neat huh? I seem to think so.

As many of you know, I love to write. Funny, absurd, shocking, true life hilarity. I've been trying to write a book for years and as you all know, my lazy ass can never seem to finish it. Or get very far [4 chapters in]. Blogging is instant and gets instant results. I'm an impatient person and feel this setup is perfect for me.

Ok, I don't think I have anything else to say. I guess I feel a little ashamed having to resort to this, but I don't like real jobs. Because real jobs mean leaving the house and dealing with the public. Neither of which I am cut out to do.

Well, I take that back. Sort of. If it wasn't for Hurricane Katrina I would have finished massage therapy school along with obtaining a business degree. If it weren't for The Animal getting Salmonella I could take him to daycare at Haney and attend MT school there. But alas, they don't take children still testing positive for Salmonella [it can stay there dormant for up to a year].

Got off topic, sorry. What I wanted to add is that the only way I like dealing with the public is when I'm not a waitress serving self righteous assholes who've let their hunger get so debilitating that they march inside with a chip on their shoulder. Hungry people = angry people. With MT I'm there to relax them. That and I love homeopathic medicines and alternatives to modern medicine. Which is not good for your soul.

And with that...I'm out.

Warning! Paragraphs 5-7 are lamer than the rest.

Before I begin this blog let me make a few or one things clear. I like commas. A lot. I admit it. I use commas like breathing. If I do not place them every six words or so I might die. Did that, make, any sense? Aha! Did you catch that? I did that on purpose. But most of the time I don't. Which is probably a direct result of dropping out of high school to live life like Jack Kerouac ala On the Road. 

When I wasn't pigging out on Taco Bell and sleeping English class away in the parking lot of Winn-Dixie, I made an appearance in my English class only to drool the hour away at my desk. After a few failed attempts at pretending I didn't just drool Lake Superior on my desk I got hip and started putting pieces of paper under my bored, gaping maw so that when I woke up I would fake a dramatic yawn to distract anyone from noticing me wadding up and flicking my drool paper to the floor.

I will add that after a few months of adventuring, I got my GED, went to college [community-hey, it was a start] to be an English major [ha!] and quit 6 months before I was to graduate to move to Portland, Oregon to resume my life as Lackadaisical Lauren. Adventurer and homeless befriender. Remind me to tell you about Richard, my bestest homeless friend in Portland. 

The Animal [my son] is in bed and so is my other animal. She is not to be on the bed or any furniture for that matter. Why? Because she is of an indeterminate age and has a tinkle problem. I got her after my dog Daisy died. Exactly one day after. I had no intention of getting another dog after the love of my life had been put to sleep but my mom insisted we visit the Humane Society to get me another dog. Presumably, so that I wouldn’t kill myself when she wasn't looking. 

Long story short. After two hours of circling the shelter for my my mom's satisfaction I actually found a furry little creature I took home and named Clementine. My boyfriend at the time suggested it as our favorite TV show was Reno 911 and the whore cop Clementine was one of our favorite characters. That and she comes with her own song! She also came with a tag that had her hometown placed in Hammond, Louisiana. I took it as a sign as we were moving to New Orleans in the next couple of months so away we went... home with a new dog.

The humane society found her wandering the parking lot of a McDonald's on the beach. No one knows how old she really is and that was 6 years ago. Even then she had missing teeth and grey hair. 6 years later with even less teeth and a tinkle problem. She's got medicine for it, but it doesn't plug it completely. Thank god we have wood and tile floors. And even then it's not really apparent unless she's sat somewhere for awhile and there will be a little puddle where her pooch cooch was. Haha. I said "pooch cooch".

Anyways, I decided to let Ole Clem crawl into bed with me as I laid a towel under her booty if she decides to leak a little while she's up here. We haven't snuggled together in a long time so I think she deserves it.

Wow... this was not the blog I intended it to be. I meant to put up that little disclaimer about my comma problem and move on to how this is Happy Blog. It will be all rainbows and unicorns. No foreboding clouds of doom and ringworms on your taint. This is my garden of Oregon grown marijuana, addiction free Xanax, Confederate Jasmine, and purple and green tulips. Hm, there's got to be a kitchen in there somewhere if I'm going to be growing pot on my magical/stressfree/blog-garden of Happiness. Annnnnyyyways.     

What have we learned so far? I obsessively overuse commas, my dog leaks pee, and I have a penchant for homeless people. 

FYI: I hate the word penchant. Like, when I read peoples profiles and they say they have a penchant for something. It's like the ultimate indicator that the person is either stuck up, a hipster, a wannabe hipster, or mentally retarded. Come to think of it... every single one of those stereotypes is an indicator that the person is mentally retarded. 

Oh yeah... I, without fail, will offend everyone at some point throughout the lifespan of this blog. You will have to get over this fact right now or I recommend discontinuing reading my blog. It's just who I am. I mean no harm. I'm not a bigot, or a racist, a mean person. I like to think a little well placed offensiveness is funny. That's all. No big deal. We can get over this together right now and tomorrow can be sees sawing in a park full of marshmallows so if you're over 500 pounds and you catapult me over your head I won't break my neck. Instead, I'll laugh jovially [wait, aren't the people over 500 pounds the only ones who can laugh jovially?]...ahem... I'll laugh hysterically and pull out a bag of graham crackers, Hershey bars, and a torch lighter. We will eat and be merry.

This blog is dedicated to the people who have been following my manic, sometimes depressed, crazed, everyonceinawhile funny, nonsensical, blogs for years. A lot of you are stalkers. And out all of you I love the stalkers most of all. I love youuuuuuuuuuuu!

"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead." ~ Charles Bukowski

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

I think I just may post again...

Blogging is rare for me nowadays and has been for quite awhile. What with I have an 8 month old child and he takes up a lot of my time. But even when I was pregnant, without a job, and plenty of time on my hands, I still couldn't work up enough brain and finger energy to even post a pathetic... Meh...

What's even more pathetic is as I was reaching for my Frappuccino I accidentally grabbed my son's bottle and it took 2 sucks on the nipple for me to realize that was not, in fact, my delicious coffee beverage, but my son's bottle a quarter full of foul smelling soy formula [ps. they smell even worse when burped from your child's mouth].

One would think the appearance of a rubber nipple in my mouth would alert me that I had the wrong drink. But no, I took not one, but two sucks off the nipple before I realized that I wasn't drinking delicious milky coffee, but foul smelling baby formula.

And that folks, is my life. Today, at least.

Alright, let's be honest. It's like this everyday.

~Strange Fruit

First post. Test post.

My name is Lauren and I am the strangest fruit on the tree. Any tree. You name it, I'm going to be the strangest one on there. Tree full of oranges? I'm the pineapple. A pineapple with legs. And a shank. Which may make you reconsider tearing me off my tree just because I'm a pineapple with legs on an orange tree. But I have a shank. And it doesn't end well for you.

You decide.

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