Partay!

That word.  It doesn’t mean the same thing for everyone, does it?  The “colleges” and “hipsters’ and “millenials” are all about the active expression of partay-ing.  I think I’m a Gen Xer (or am I Y?  This is the problem — I’m too out of the loop to know … or care).  Whatever my generation, I’m just tahrd.  My version of party is:

I got my Russell Jenkins in the tub

He’s getting scrubbed and clean

He’s all angry and he’s looking at me real, real mean

I don’t care if he’s ticked off, ‘ cause I got bigger issues

Like cleaning up the waste basket which is full of my flu tissues

I was sick all week, for sure, but that homey just don’t care

He wants to eat those tissues on his back, legs in the air

Imma’ let you finish, Russell J, ’cause I ain’t pressed

I gotta finish making all these decks ‘fore I can rest

So, eat those tissues, fool, and when done, jump up in the garbage

I’m going to finish working so that I can drop some knowledge

On some people whom I like, who I think might just be the source

For this next step in our journey, (you’re coming too, of course).

See?  Who thinks making up a stupid rhyme about stupid PowerPoint/work is fun?  I do!  I’m too old to have a milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard — and let’s be honest here: frankly, if they showed up, I’d probably yell at them for trampling the grass.   Nope, my milkshake doesn’t bring all the boys to the yard, but it’s darned good, better than yours, and full of full-fat ice-cream.  It also comes with a spoon,  not a straw, because a straw couldn’t handle all this.

(I know.  I’m just feeling pumped at getting over the hurdle of 2×2 ribbing on my test knit.  Hubris, thy name is Jen!  I’ll get knocked back down tomorrow.)

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