And that, my child, would be fact …

Quietly relaxing (pahahahahahahahah) by which I mean I placed my arse on the couch for .376 of a second when Monkey Boy approached, by which I mean “yelled from the other end of the house” and asked the unthinkable.

“MU-UUM! Where are your post-it notes?”

To which I replied with the standard. No, not “where you left them” or “where they live” like I do with most things. Rather, an interrogation as to why he wanted post-its and to remind him they are MINE and to touch them may result in death-by-stabbing.

Last time someone got hold of my post-its, this is what happened:

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