So we're leaving Wendy's at lunch today and I'm telling dad that I discovered some scratches on the back of my ankle this morning when the water from my shower painfully made contact with my skin. I was commenting they were war wounds from the previous evening's escapades with the new rope dad gave Chandler for his birthday. [It had metal clamps on each end so it screamed "tie Aunt Ret to her chair, throw her on the ground, lasso her legs, arms, you name it...] As I was saying, we were walking out the door and as I'm whining about it Chandler quickly grabs the payphone and mockingly says, "Hello? 911? Come quick, my Aunt has scratches on her leg."

That's pretty funny stuff.

His room number is 2438 Bed A. I'm sure he'd appreciate your cards when he comes to...