I’m working on the graphing-numbers part of it now because I was an English major in college and haven’t done graphing since I was a fetus. I have 10 little piggies, and I’m not afraid to use them. When shit gets real, I’ll even take off my socks. Beyond that, I beseech the almighty Google for answers.

It’s sad. When I have to multiply large numbers, I get distracted by shiny things and lose track of what I’m doing. I’m like Drew Barrymore in “50 First Dates,” only she could focus on shit for an entire day.

Knewton tries to be tricky. One question asked: What is the opposite of the opposite of 7?

I totally know this. You’re not gonna get me today, pigfucker! And by “pigfucker,” I mean Devon.

Math brings out the animal in me.

Once a week, I’m selling sandwiches to Devon’s co-workers: homemade English muffins and sausage, cheddar cheese and eggs. Sometimes things like this just come out of nowhere, and I’m having a pretty good time with it. There are lots of recipes on the Internet for English muffins, but I like the one I linked to here because you can do the mixing and rising part in the bread machine. I’ve also used buttermilk instead of regular milk with good results.

OK, “full” is an overstatement. But I have several things on there and will post a few more over the next few days. I’ll also be pimping myself here.

Hey, it beats showing up on your doorstep with magazine subscription forms. Don’t think I haven’t considered it.

The second was inspired by my friend Saul, who really isn’t a sociopath. He’s just a dick. If you want either of these images on a product that isn’t in the store, let me know and I’ll make one. Visit the store at Dark Portal Crafts, or click the link at the top right side of this blog.

Another friend (who isn’t a dick) is working on a graphic that I hope to turn into some crafts and t-shirts and such. Stay tuned! Or go have a snack. I won’t mind either way. I’m pretty chill.

Among other things, I cleaned the bedroom windows, which had not been cleaned since they were installed, about two years ago. This is partly because I am a lazy slob, and partly because cleaning these windows requires a DC 30 Acrobatics check or instant death.

Window ledge, three floors up

The windows don’t open enough to reach through from the inside. This is because the people who designed our building are assholes and want me dead. Cleaning windows is the No. 1 cause of falling to your death, which is a stat I just pulled out of my ass, but it’s totally true. Cleaning windows and gravity. Gravity is also an asshole and wants me dead.

Devon said: “Don’t die cleaning the house. Another thing: Don’t die cleaning the windows.”

I’m pretty sure he just told me to stop cleaning. Who am I to argue?

Fitz is Dogpark Security

You see this dog?

This dog used to smell like sweaty hobo ass. As part of my 33rd birthday gift to myself, I took her to a doggie spa, where she got a thorough de-assification, teeth cleaning and nail trimming.

She’s a much better dog now.

Devon got me, among other things, an orthopedic pillow. It’s amazing and awesome and you can’t have it no matter how much you threaten me.

My friend’s 7-year-old daughter gave me a Barbie doll, which is kind of sad and amazing. Sad because I don’t have any other Barbies, so she’s a little lonely sitting in that box, and amazing because I got a fucking Barbie doll for my 33rd birthday.Eat it, all you losers who didn’t get Barbie dolls for your 33rd birthdays.

Again, you can’t have it no matter how much you threaten me.

In other news, I will be laid off as of June 1. I’m going to miss being gainfully employed, but this job kind of sucks anyway.

This morning, on the way to work, he asked, “What is Wonder Bread made of, anyway?”

It’s made of fucking wonder, that’s what.

I don’t care what anyone says. More for me.

Devon and I visited Dad and my sister on Christmas Eve, then spent Dec. 25 with friends playing World of Warcraft’s new expansion — a gift to each other — and watching movies and drinking hot buttered rum. You need to try this recipe. It was enough for 12 servings — basically, enough for Devon.

Hot-buttered rum, how I love thee. Thou art creamy and spicy and you make me teh drunk.

Did I mention the phat loot I got? I’ve been trying to figure out a way to say “Devon gave me a pearl necklace” without you guys going all pervy, but why mess with a sure thing? And I got some chocolate and bread proofing baskets and a digital picture frame to house all the old family photos I have been organizing this year. I’ve already made a loaf of whole wheat bread with the baskets, and I love them.

I gave Devon a pickle crock, among other things. Shut up, jerk. He wanted it.

It was a perfect low-stress Christmas Day to be followed by another day off thanks to the blizzard, which shut down my office. Thanks to the fact that I am far more productive at home than I am at work, I finished my work by 1 pm, played some WoW, baked some bread and cleaned the hell out of the kitchen.

Our kitchen hasn’t been this clean since we moved in. We do much cooking and little cleaning. Come see it while it lasts.

You see, this woman liked to make breakfast and lunch for herself and her husband so they could pack meals for the day. This was way healthier and cheaper than buying $7 sandwiches made of soggy DEATH. She made healthy breakfasts and lunches because she wanted them both to get old enough to scream things like, “You kids, get off my damn lawn!” And because she’s cheap. Very, very cheap.

So one day she got up to pack lunch, only she was a little tired that day, because she was getting old, and because Festergut isn’t going to kill himself, as cool as that cut scene would be. She was too tired to turn on the light, so she failed to notice that there was soap in the container she used to store her husband’s chili.

Then, tragedy struck: Her husband ate the chili and got a bit of a headache. No one is sure why he kept eating the chili even after realizing there was soap in it, but it’s probably because he thought soapy chili was made of magic. And because he didn’t think his wife would feed him soap, which was a fair assumption.

I know what you’re thinking: What about the toes?

I don’t know either. Forget I mentioned them.

You have reached the end of a journey, about to embark on a brand new one. Maybe you are graduating from college and are about to claw your way to the top of your daddy’s company. Maybe you were a philosophy major and are planning the only career for which you qualify: graduate school. Maybe you are wrapping up high school and are just glad to be done with that wretched hive of scum and villainy. In any case, pull up a chair and let Old Grandma Dirty Hooker give you some advice.

1. No matter what your mother told you, you can’t be anything you want to be when you grow up. Just like you have natural talents, there are things you naturally suck at, and it’s important to know the difference. If I’d decided to be an engineer when I was in college, there would be a lot more shit breaking and blowing up today, which is why I fix sentences for a living.

2. Be practical. It’s great to love what you do, but it’s even better when what you do comes with a paycheck. Being broke is fine when you’re 19 and rotating cots with 27 of your closest friends, but it gets old fast, much like you. If you’re going to take a risk on a high-poverty career (for example, theater, art, writing), be realistic about your own talent. Again, don’t ask your mom for her opinion on this (unless your mom is a bitch and willing to tell it like it is).

3. Don’t fall into whatever happens. It’s easy to explain why you had three jobs in two years when you’re 23. People expect you to be a flake, so try new things now. If you’re switching jobs twice a year at 40, people will assume you have a drug problem.

I’m sure there’s lots more to say, but this is a blog, not a dissertation, so I guess you’ll have to sort out the rest yourselves. Good luck with all that.