i'd like to take issue with the phrase, "dropping like flies." ever since the weather turned cool, i've had more flies in my house than a greasy diner in queens. and not one of these fuckers has dropped. not one.
i am a boulder-based restaurant publicist, music critic and mother. i believe i have the right to salt and pepper my own food, i dislike bands who don't understand the power of economy in song performance, and i now realize that a tango lesson + three mt. gay and tonics = one hell of a great kid. i am happiest in the summer, riding shotgun with my feet up on the dash and my hand inside a bag of pork rinds. and yes, i know what's in them.
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