lesmels

My father is a bipolar "mother-tattooed" carry-over from the days and country of the vikings. He made the mistake of marrying a tiny mountain girl and she bore him no less than 3 children who are all knocking at 100 lb. Glory's door. Despite the small stature of his self-determined family, he refuses to believe that fate has denied him a hardy work-force from which to draw his aid in all projects, large and small, which require manual labor. As such, once again I am painting... this time the floor of a warehouse...a full warehouse, not an empty one. This means boxes must be lifted, pallets moved, supplies fetched, buckets carried, etc. And perhaps he didn't make a mistake... for mountain women are strong and apparently of good stock. We can almost always comply with every ridiculous command; caulking, drilling, scraping, and hauling are all within our areas of expertise, femininity be damned. His true mistake lies in thinking we do not mind these efforts...this is more erroneous than assuming the world is flat or that newts were born of fire, as these theories were at least ostensibly based on actual observation and I can think of no mannerism of my sulky, cranky, grumbling self that would compel any rational human to suggest that he thought I were having a good time dipping rollers in a pan. None.

Oh, but I have to admit, whatever is asked of me for some time must be complied with as he and my mother recently bought me Victor... and he is oh so lovely. Tokyo-drift WHAT?! That's right, bitches... check yo self before I scoot up all on yo shit.