It’s Sunday night…

…and that clearly means I have nothing to say.

Except to Imladris: I do not appreciate the lovely little add-ons that you put on my shopping list. Perhaps if you spent less time reading stuff on my nightstand it wouldn’t be so hilarious to you that yes, I buy deodorant (scandal!). I don’t just go upstairs and borrow someone else’s. And oh, my post last night was not riddled with grammatical errors. In fact, there were no grammatical errors and only two misspellings, which I think we can all agree is very good for me, who still has a problem spelling “definitely”. (What? The spelling. It was never my thing. God bless her, my mother tried. It didn’t work.)

Anything else? No? I’m writing a paper about the IRA. Very interesting. Absolutely crazy, batshit group. I freaking love it. I love that all the Irish-Americans totally loved them because hey! They’re Irish! And they hate the British! So do we! Give us back our potatoes! even more.

When my mom was in Ireland in 1981 (or, looking back, Yeah, Probably a Good Thing You Didn’t Go To the Beleek Factory Period) she was convinced that some distant relative they visited was a member of the IRA because they were weird and shady and perhaps showed up in a ski mask one day.

(I made that last part up, I don’t know if he was wearing ski mask. But I doubt my grandmother would have noticed, what with all the Waterford there was to be purchased.)

I find that fascinating. I don’t support them, but I really, really want a member of my family in a paramilitary organization.

You know, for street cred.

I’m not sure what street an IRA member gives you cred on, but hell, I want it.

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