The Thing We're Not Talking About

We're not talking about the car accident we had on Saturday, so you won't hear anything about it on this blog. Because we are not talking about it. Period. You will not learn of the oil spilled all over the road at Jane and Rutherford, which caused us to slide and slam right into the back of an SUV, and you will not be warned about this very dangerous intersection. If we were talking about the car accident, I would tell you to not go near that intersection. Oh well. More's the pity. Now you'll never know.

We are, however, talking about my boobs, which are very sore today, thanks (and I do mean thanks) to my seatbelt. If I had teensy supermodel boobs, I might not be this sore, but I don't have small boobs. I have larger than average, very sore boobs, that do not enjoy being in car accidents.

We're also not talking about the fact that our power was out for six hours on Saturday, one year to the date of last year's blackout. I kid you not. Saturday was the most accursed, damnable day ever.