Furiously Happy Read Online Free PDF

of sheepskin, but it always creeps me out because does that mean Victor and I are having sex with a sheep? A dead sheep, actually. So it’s bestiality and necrophilia. And a three-way, I think. I actually mentioned that to Victor and he immediately booked a vasectomy, which is sweet because it’s nice that he cares about me. He claimed it was less his caring and more “I’d rather have my nuts cut off than have to listen to you talk about having three-ways with dead sheep.” But now I have all these leftover condoms. They make great water balloons though and I bet they’d be really good for championship bubblegum-blowing competitions. Really chewy sheep bubblegum. That might be cheating. I don’t know the rules about bubblegum contests.
    *   *   *
    My grandmother used to say, “Those are not the kind of underwear you want to get hit by a bus in,” but I don’t think the underwear has been invented that would make me want to get hit by a bus. Plus, when you’re hit by a bus I think your underwear is probably the last thing on your mind. In fact, when you die your bowels release and you shit yourself, so even if you were wearing clean underwear they would not be clean by the time your grandmother got there. That’s why I think they should make underwear with defensive sayings on them like “I swear these were totally clean this morning.” It’s the equivalent of those old-fashioned day-of-the-week underwear without having to remember what day it is. I can barely manage to get dressed in the morning, much less pass a pop quiz given by my underwear on what day it is. And besides, why am I taking advice on underwear from my grandmother when “granny panties” are the most universally reviled underthings in existence? When we were kids our great-aunt Olly used to give my sister and me a roll of dimes and a pack of granny panties every Christmas. They were so enormous that we’d pull them up to our necks and pretend they were strapless leotards while we mimicked the dancers on Fame . Just in the privacy of our own house though. That would be mortifying in public. And actually if someone saw me wearing granny panties that went up to my armpits while trying to do the robot I’d probably throw myself in front of a bus. Full circle.
    â€œThe victim was wearing a strapless leotard when she shit herself. A roll of dimes was found on the body. Her grandmother has been contacted to inform her how badly she failed.”

 
    I Have a Sleep Disorder and It’s Probably Going to Kill Me or Someone Else
    If you were to ask me, “How did you sleep?” I’d usually say, “Pretty well, all things considered.” But today it’s a bit more complicated because this morning I lost both of my arms.
    On the bright side, it gave me something to write about, although it was of course impossible to write about at the time because I didn’t have any working arms.
    *   *   *
    (Editor’s note: Start over. Sound less ludicrous.)
    *   *   *
    Fine.
    *   *   *
    This morning I got up at six a.m. to get Hailey off to school but then I went back to bed for a bit because I’d been up until three a.m. having a dead raccoon rodeo in the kitchen.
    *   *   *
    (Editor’s note: You know what? Never mind.)
    *   *   *
    The dead raccoon’s name was Rory. I fell in love with him the instant I saw him because he looked exactly like Rambo, the rescued, orphaned raccoon who lived in my bathtub when I was little. Rory hadn’t been lucky enough to be adopted by a small child who’d dress him up in small shorts sets and let him turn her sink into his own tiny waterfall.
    Instead, Rory had fallen in with a bad crowd and ended up as roadkill, but my friend Jeremy (a burgeoning taxidermist) saw great potential (and very few tire marks) on the