Vomit, Curse, Hate

Because in real life that's what you do in a divorce. The Eat Pray Love blahblahblah is a very sweet concept, but sadly mere mortals cannot take a year off to go "find themselves" by visiting exotic locations and humping a few foreign hotties. Not to say it's necessarily a bad idea, it's just not terribly practical.

So.
To sum up the past couple of months: Mr. Bunker has officially been kicked to the curb.
At long last I took the kids and left him alone in the family castle with his busted up hoarders collection of old clocks, spittoons, and giant shitloads of other junk which he can sort through and rearrange to his heart's content as he continues to milk his "disability".

I am missing having things like, um, a bed, and a dresser and sheets and dishes and salt and pepper shakers, but it appears that I have excaped with my sanity and ma bebbies, so fuck you Mr. Bunker.

And that's MS. Bunker, thankyouverymuch.