I cannot take credit for the hillarity and whit you will soon be enjoying... nope... this, my friends, is the handy work of the talented Asha (or so she shall be called for the purposes of my blog)... Though I will take credit for some small portion of it ;)
Did you go to the bathroom?
Are you sitting down?
Are you ready for a good ab work out?
Then you've come to the right place...
Read on...
I am a Gold-medal winning gymnast with a neanderthal heritage and a fantastic upper hand punch. I drink vinegar to make me saucy and eat flowers for breakfast. My best friends are Care Bears, especially Sir Care-a-Lot because he cares a lot. And I like that. I am extremely righteous in all the best ways and very fun-loving in all the best ways. Which makes me like every other girl on here who all "loooove fun!" And isn't that a relief when you were concerned that we might hate fun? Nope. No fun hating here. Love it. But righteously, of course.
Also, it's apparently popular to love the outdoors, so I love that, too.
I have the body of a goddess, or-- what did I say? Oh, yes. An Olympic gymnast. Right. That. I cook like Nigella Lawson and she may think she can lick a spoon but nothing like me. I can lick a spoon. I run faster than rain and can give a massage so well that your pancreas will squeak, "Thank you, Nigella!" to which I'll say back, "I'm better than Nigella, remember?" Unless you've had your pancreas removed, in which case I'll hope that your spleen speaks English, too. Most spleens do but some only speak Icelandic and, like, who speaks Icelandic? I can't be bothered what with my Latin and Turkish studies that keep me busy. But not too busy to take care of you. Yes, back to You... Brad/Mike/Mark/Bobby/Derek/Bryan/Jer emy/Tyler? I think you're amazing!!! Yes, just like on The Bachelorette and every other reality show ever to feature illiterate 20-somethings: You are AMAZING. And I will tell you 238 times a day. Because good men are hard to find and you need a good woman who will see your worth and tell it to you. 354 times a day. I will set up iPhone alerts to remind me in between all the vacuuming and scrubbing that toilet so clean that it can double as part of our two week water storage supply. No woman will keep your home cleaner, not even Fly Lady. No lady is flyer than me. Im fly for you honey, Dont forget, you're the best thing that ever happened to me, and I will remind you of that 525 times a day.
I'm looking for a baby daddy who is not too tall and not to short, not too skinny and not too chubby. He should speak more than one language (preferrably Icelandic so he can interpret his spleen for me) (unless he doesn't value his spleen enough to care, I do realise it's not most men's first favourite organ), have a PhD in something romantic, speak with a British accent, cook well, be absolutely hilarious and witty (and brilliant enough to know that those words don't mean the same thing) (which you'd think he would be if he has a PhD), and be able to fix anything. He should play several instruments, including the Lyre and the whiskers of a substantially large raccoon, and like many genres of music, especially of the raccoon variety. He should write poetry that makes Shakespeare cry out in envy all the way from the Spirit World, and be built like a Fifa World Cup football player. He should be able to carve fine chain link jewellery out of bamboo and should be able to knit me a cableknit sweater worthy of jaunts in Irish sheep-besotted countrysides.
That is all.
Also, it's apparently popular to love the outdoors, so I love that, too.
I have the body of a goddess, or-- what did I say? Oh, yes. An Olympic gymnast. Right. That. I cook like Nigella Lawson and she may think she can lick a spoon but nothing like me. I can lick a spoon. I run faster than rain and can give a massage so well that your pancreas will squeak, "Thank you, Nigella!" to which I'll say back, "I'm better than Nigella, remember?" Unless you've had your pancreas removed, in which case I'll hope that your spleen speaks English, too. Most spleens do but some only speak Icelandic and, like, who speaks Icelandic? I can't be bothered what with my Latin and Turkish studies that keep me busy. But not too busy to take care of you. Yes, back to You... Brad/Mike/Mark/Bobby/Derek/Bryan/Jer emy/Tyler? I think you're amazing!!! Yes, just like on The Bachelorette and every other reality show ever to feature illiterate 20-somethings: You are AMAZING. And I will tell you 238 times a day. Because good men are hard to find and you need a good woman who will see your worth and tell it to you. 354 times a day. I will set up iPhone alerts to remind me in between all the vacuuming and scrubbing that toilet so clean that it can double as part of our two week water storage supply. No woman will keep your home cleaner, not even Fly Lady. No lady is flyer than me. Im fly for you honey, Dont forget, you're the best thing that ever happened to me, and I will remind you of that 525 times a day.
I'm looking for a baby daddy who is not too tall and not to short, not too skinny and not too chubby. He should speak more than one language (preferrably Icelandic so he can interpret his spleen for me) (unless he doesn't value his spleen enough to care, I do realise it's not most men's first favourite organ), have a PhD in something romantic, speak with a British accent, cook well, be absolutely hilarious and witty (and brilliant enough to know that those words don't mean the same thing) (which you'd think he would be if he has a PhD), and be able to fix anything. He should play several instruments, including the Lyre and the whiskers of a substantially large raccoon, and like many genres of music, especially of the raccoon variety. He should write poetry that makes Shakespeare cry out in envy all the way from the Spirit World, and be built like a Fifa World Cup football player. He should be able to carve fine chain link jewellery out of bamboo and should be able to knit me a cableknit sweater worthy of jaunts in Irish sheep-besotted countrysides.
That is all.
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