And here it is: the update.
I’ve been a total useless tit these past few weeks, pumping out an impressive combination of curd and bullshit.
Nothing new on that front I suppose.
Haven’t been able to bridle my brain long enough to form a coherent thought, but have managed to amuse people with some of my Frankenstein sentences like, “Don’t use my elbow to slosh your knob”.
Yeah. I don’t even know what I was trying to say.
Now, by Monday evening, this stream of incoherent and fragmented contemplation had turned into an outright onslaught.
Thankfully, this attack has helped me form one complete thought: How the hell do you defend yourself from yourself.
Christ, I’m one nasty little bitch.
As it turns out, I am also one kick-ass basketball player - or, at least, I’m better than Jim, whose game is on the back of a milk carton, effective last night.
His main offensive tactic is to render his opponent helpless with laughter. He seems to be under the impression that the basketball is a shot-put and his 6’4 frame is enough to intimidate adversaries. Alas, he had not played against me. See, I am a conditioned marvel of a woman - agile like a jungle-cat, quick, fearless, dedicated to the pursuit of claiming the court in the name of frustrated half-breeds everywhere. Hear my plangent cry: I’ll rip the leg hair off anyone who stands in my way.
If Jim was a competitive or sensitive man, we may have had a problem. My smack-talk is not garden variety offensive. It is outright and deeply insulting.
But come end of game and my inevitable victory, he proved an amicable loser (i.e. the biggest kind of loser) and proffered a congratulatory hug and “Nice game, mouse”.
I let his use of my diminutive pet-name pass. Victory was mine.
Didn’t feel as victorious this morning when I stepped out of bed and directly into cat vomit.
Lady Luck is a fickle bitch my friends.
And that basically sums it all up.
Nothing new on that front I suppose.
Haven’t been able to bridle my brain long enough to form a coherent thought, but have managed to amuse people with some of my Frankenstein sentences like, “Don’t use my elbow to slosh your knob”.
Yeah. I don’t even know what I was trying to say.
Now, by Monday evening, this stream of incoherent and fragmented contemplation had turned into an outright onslaught.
Thankfully, this attack has helped me form one complete thought: How the hell do you defend yourself from yourself.
Christ, I’m one nasty little bitch.
As it turns out, I am also one kick-ass basketball player - or, at least, I’m better than Jim, whose game is on the back of a milk carton, effective last night.
His main offensive tactic is to render his opponent helpless with laughter. He seems to be under the impression that the basketball is a shot-put and his 6’4 frame is enough to intimidate adversaries. Alas, he had not played against me. See, I am a conditioned marvel of a woman - agile like a jungle-cat, quick, fearless, dedicated to the pursuit of claiming the court in the name of frustrated half-breeds everywhere. Hear my plangent cry: I’ll rip the leg hair off anyone who stands in my way.
If Jim was a competitive or sensitive man, we may have had a problem. My smack-talk is not garden variety offensive. It is outright and deeply insulting.
But come end of game and my inevitable victory, he proved an amicable loser (i.e. the biggest kind of loser) and proffered a congratulatory hug and “Nice game, mouse”.
I let his use of my diminutive pet-name pass. Victory was mine.
Didn’t feel as victorious this morning when I stepped out of bed and directly into cat vomit.
Lady Luck is a fickle bitch my friends.
And that basically sums it all up.