Bachelor Pads That Cause Me Unneccessary Grief

You may be wondering why my posting is sodidlyoh sporadic when I used to have posts up consistently by 9 am.  I wonder the same thing.

And here's the answer:

I do not have my own computation device.  Mainly because Big D thinks that instant queenship-hood will envelop me and I would walk around with a crown on my head and nose 3 inches higher than it already is.  So in order to keep me properly placed in my mom squzzies - cooking him dinner 3x a week and washing his man panties, I have to beg usage of others.

Ok, so I walk into Mothers knowing that I have nothing, and must produce something.  On a regular basis - ie 5x a week.  Challenge accepted.

I do have 2 brothers still living at home that both have a nice half eaten apple machine.  As well as a new man, J-man (because he's the man) hanging around town (aka Mothers) who ALSO has a nice half-eaten apple machine.

And I thought to myself, "Foxy, this is NOT, legitimately NOT going to be an issue.  This problem of having nothing - Jesus just turned nothing into 3 apples.  I am cov-ured by the blood."

Until I realized that I had moved into a bachelor's pad.  Yup, three bachelors.  All on the hunt.  They have this room with couches and corner tables and beds.  Yes, multiple.  It's air-conditioned.  And dark.  And they hide up there.  With the apple machines.  And they talk about hussies, that care WAY too much about their appearance.  Hussies that I want to box their ears in and then ask, WHAT NOW?.

Back to the topic - machines.  So these fellas hide what I need mostly.  But on a rare occasion there will be a slip-up and somebody will leave their computer lying around in the western boating wing.  I'll open it up feeling like a half queen, pleased as punch that I landed such a find.  Only until I open the turkeybutt appliance and find that there are more password/codes/fancy finger moves/high kicks and wizard twirls that must be performed before I can even get to the internet.

My cover is legitimately blown.  I either have to give up or holler for help with the wizard twirls.

That's the scoopy-poopy.  You could pray for me that these men would have more of a generous, helping spirit. *ahem*

Take Aways
1)  Box the hussies ears in, regardless.
2)  Have a heart-to-heart with all the rude men that surround me.
3)  Steal their computers and memorize the fancy moves it takes to get to said internet.
4)  Give up completely and worry only about attending to body lice.