I can see clearly now

Two words:

COMPUTER GLASSES.

And thus I find my way one step further into old age. But it's OK. At least I can see what you cretins are up to out there now. What was before a smeary gray blob of amusement has crystallized into a brilliantly crisp landscape of WTH was that?

Good on ya, internetly friends. You have made the purchase of a pair of cheaters worth the money and shame.

Also, I can see every crinkle on the back of my hands. Lord love 'em, they're almost ready for 'make a handbag of them' category.'

Mmm, crinkly handbits. Delicious.

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We struggled a bit with what to have for dinner tonight. There was NO MEAT, dear Lord have mercy, and so it was a Bit Difficult for a while.

But lo, a bit of sausage (AKA- meat that'll do) reared its head from the 'things to make sandwiches from' drawer of the 'fridge and thus we did declare it the night of beans and rice. And sausage. And homemade what-might-be tortillas.

Funnily enough, for a weird-ass make-do meal, it was good. Second-helping good, AAMOF. I blame the Adobo for this, as it's loaded with salt. Get you some. It comes in handy.

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Line of the night: "just because we go to the same church doesn't mean we share the same politics." Hoo boy, might we not.

Something to keep in mind.

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I hear folks in the PNW are getting some snow. Feel free to send it here. We are bereft of it, BEREFT, say I, and it's about time to make with the winter around here before Spring comes creeping in.

You heard me, Winter. I just dared you. Bring it. I am ready.

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To that lady (term used loosely) who felt it was OK to be a complete twatwaffle on the way to work this morning: Your Hairdo Sucks.

It was in fact possible to examine each strand of it while you were hovering mere inches from Jiminy's back bumper today. Each lovingly shellacked strand. Like a hair-helmet.

Do you use it to keep out the alien messages? Is it maybe a weapon (are you secretly a ninja, slaughtering the unworthy with your pilia of peril)? Does the unholy bleach job somehow convey upon you the same paint-huffing glow a vagabond might have after a can of 'gloss gold #20'?

We might never know, but one thing we do know is this: you are an ass. A big ol' stiff-haired, shiny-truck-driving, texting, wheel-gripping, ass.

Even now, 14 hours later, I hope someday you get caught in a stiff breeze and your hair just cracks off.

In sincerest flusteration, Tiff.

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And that's it, mah internet buddies. Tiff out.