It’s my dirty 30 tomorrow; hooray a satellite will take a photo of us on Earth!
Saturday I’m having, oh, anywhere from 12 to 20 people round - because apparently it’s too much admin to ask PhDs to RSVP - for a redneck-themed fancy dress backyard riot.
(Hopefully) It will be hot; there will be an insufferable amount of balloons for a ‘grown-ass woman’; competitive cornhole will result in a broken shed window that was only refitted 2 weeks ago; country music will be blasted from our ‘hard’, Gorton-y back garden. A feast will be provided for guest featuring all the classics of the Southern redneck’s native cuisine, and grape kool-aid and sweet tea shall flow like the River Mersey.
So to ensure I don’t spend my actual birthday preparing a Southern feast in a 30C (and rising! cooking a fucking brisket for 7 hours!) kitchen, I’m getting everything done a day early. All that is left is to bake kolaches and red velvet cupcakes and cutting the hair of the husband… So right now any crises or even paltry requests are being met with, ‘Fuck this; fuck that; fuck those too; fuck these also.’ H/T: K Starnes