And STILL says, "Put on your slippers. My floors aren't clean".

But mother, I KNOW they're clean, or at the very least, cleaner than 311 apartment 9, my place of residence for the past two school years. And you know HOW I happen to know them floors are relatively clean?

Well for one, my feet/socks don't come up black at the end of the night.

For two, I'M THE ONE THAT'S DOING THE CLEANING OF THE FLOORS AT HOME. That's right. You heard me. I vacuum, I sweep, I mop, and one of these days I'm going to take a toothbrush to this floor. I do take a certain pride in keeping my floors clean enough SO I CAN WALK AROUND BARE-FOOT IN MY OWN HOME. Comfortability. Hence, the saying, "the comfort of my own home".

For three, Ray Allen, all the way from downtown Seattle. His stroke is impeccable.

And another thing, you know the feeling when your throat is a little dry? And it feels like something's kind of stuck down there, that little bit of that guck that old people love to spit out into those cute, yet so nasty, handkerchiefs and (women don't know this) into urinals?

My mother, while brewing supposed cleansing herbal drinks in the kitchen, would yell "Don't eat anything that will irritate your throat, now put down that over-salted peanut" and "Here, I poured you another glass of water (the fifteenth one in the last half hour), please take a break from your computer and come drink it".

Well, my mother is currently family-reunioning in Calgary (while the rest of her real family is stuck in Toronto, YEAH I SAId IT, I'M HER REAL FAMILY). And today, my throat got to the point where I just couldn't take it anymore. So you know what I did?

I went and bought myself a bag of Original Baked Lays potato chips, and ATE EVERY SINGLE LAST BIT. I even did the ever so popular tilt-your-head-back-and-pour-all-the-chip-bits-into-your-mouth at the end to ensure that only the oil was left smeared on the inside of the bag. And if I had a pair of scissors, well, let's just say, that the oil would've transfered from the inside of the bag to the outside of my face.

And the best part was, my throat instantly cleared up. The oil must've greased the airway because everything felt fresher and clearer after that.

I really do miss my mother, because without her I feel like my regular eating of food will take a hit. Allow me to explore a random sampling of "things I have eaten these last three days" (she's only been gone three, but it seems like four-ever): a banana, a banana nutella sandwich, a pogo stick, a ham sandwich with cream cheese and mustard BLEGH (those two go together as good as Snoop Dogg would sound with Broken Social Scene), a Tim Horton's donut, and some frozen food mommy cooked up before leaving on that jet plane.

And I'm going to paragraph break here for emphasis.

A POGO STICK.

If you feel the need to send food to me, please do. In fact, I expect to see chicken's crossing the road to my house any second now.

Mr. Isaac Newton? Hi, Buttug here. I have a quick question for you, and require your expertise. It'll only take a moment. Thank you.

Why did the chicken cross the road?

"Chickens at rest tend to stay at rest; chickens in motion tend to cross roads."

And with that, I roll along. What a classy note to go out of this post on.