(no subject)
August 31st, 2004, Part-Two.
You know, whenever I’ve previously contemplated going insane, I thought I’d do so from some sweeping balcony, hair long and curled in ribbons, wearing some low-cut dress with lots of layers displaying ample cleavage; I’d lean dramatically over the side and coo to the people passing by, that Satan was indeed my master. It’d happen very quickly, I’d probably fall, and get carried off into the sunset by Yami no Malik (although the latter has only popped up in the past month or so, ‘cause, you know, support-group and all that).
Instead, it’s slow and painful, my hair is not in ribbons nor is it long (but it smells awfully nice), I’m wearing some awful flannelette shirt, my silly musical shirt, a dilapidated jean-skirt, I’m no way near a balcony, there is no cleavage in sight (and it’s gotten to the point where I can feel my sodding breast-bone and ribs).
If the whole thing wasn’t so amusing, I’d probably feel a bit cheated, especially the bit about the clevage.
Ah, Griffith. You and I are so alike. Well, except for the part about you being a raging lunatic, because I'm just going progressively batty.
Anyway, in conclusion, to quote a great and wise man:
“No TV and no beer make Homer go something-something.”
“Crazy?”
“Don’t mind if I do!”
--
MUM: Hello, dear. How are you feeling?
NINE: Evil. Disgusting. Miserable. Dead. Insane. Bonkers. Really, Really Odd. Blonde. Snotty. An Ex-Parrot. I've kicked the bucket, and have gone to join the bleedin' choir invisible!
MUM: Should I even bother?
NINE: No.
You know, whenever I’ve previously contemplated going insane, I thought I’d do so from some sweeping balcony, hair long and curled in ribbons, wearing some low-cut dress with lots of layers displaying ample cleavage; I’d lean dramatically over the side and coo to the people passing by, that Satan was indeed my master. It’d happen very quickly, I’d probably fall, and get carried off into the sunset by Yami no Malik (although the latter has only popped up in the past month or so, ‘cause, you know, support-group and all that).
Instead, it’s slow and painful, my hair is not in ribbons nor is it long (but it smells awfully nice), I’m wearing some awful flannelette shirt, my silly musical shirt, a dilapidated jean-skirt, I’m no way near a balcony, there is no cleavage in sight (and it’s gotten to the point where I can feel my sodding breast-bone and ribs).
If the whole thing wasn’t so amusing, I’d probably feel a bit cheated, especially the bit about the clevage.
Ah, Griffith. You and I are so alike. Well, except for the part about you being a raging lunatic, because I'm just going progressively batty.
Anyway, in conclusion, to quote a great and wise man:
“No TV and no beer make Homer go something-something.”
“Crazy?”
“Don’t mind if I do!”
--
MUM: Hello, dear. How are you feeling?
NINE: Evil. Disgusting. Miserable. Dead. Insane. Bonkers. Really, Really Odd. Blonde. Snotty. An Ex-Parrot. I've kicked the bucket, and have gone to join the bleedin' choir invisible!
MUM: Should I even bother?
NINE: No.