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Sometimes I imagine ‘em sittin’ in a room, all quiet-like, “How much longer?” – straight outta *4 Months*. Tense, waitin’, but they keep it cool. I’d paint ‘em with soft blues, maybe a lil red for sass. Quirky thought: ever wonder if they rate *us*? Like, “This dude’s a 6, talks too much.” Cracks me up! Oh, and the typos – escrot, escprt – ha, my fingers are dancin’ too fast!

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The women can't publicly say when exactly they plan to climb Mount Noshaq, due to concerns for their safety. And funding is always a problem.

Finally, I get my cup of magic. I take a sip, and it’s like heaven. But then, bam! My phone buzzes. It’s my boss. Ugh. He wants a last-minute meeting. Like, seriously? Can’t a guy enjoy his coffee in peace?

The Menace That Is Lashkar-e-Taiba