You know, right up front, one should know I am childish, insecure, jealous, high maintenance, vain and I'm sure I could get references that are much more colorful.
Just pretend that statement is on the side of a cigarette box to warn of my wiles, but light it up, outside. And for the love of Pete, don't throw butts in my yard.
I realize in the face of a fizzling cold war that has taken a turn towards nuclear threats has truly brought out my inner Howard Stern, though I confess I should probably add a smidgen of Dr. Phil, but forget the yellow tie. So yes, to follow shall be a frothy bitch session followed by the desire to hear 'Cry Me A River' so I can fake some tears for that damned tie. Not because I cannot cry, oh please, I simply have no more tears and I have fallen for the theory one must cry late at night and alone, but be sure to wash afterwards. Since when did crying become a sign of a weak person? The thing is, when I stop crying, whomever is court reporter had best make a note of it, as I stop being a shiny thing, and shift into survival mode. There are a few different models, and well, its time to put on makeup and an outfit that makes weaker men look away for fear I might devour them whole. The sad thing is, most people never see this me, as I take her out for a spin alone, as its more fun being the unattainable trophy that picks out the menu...
I am kind of losing focus here. I go from beaten puppy dog to egotistical witch, and I cannot decide whether or not to just let that ride and wait. I just got finished making huge signs to hang in the neighborhood because my Cat Lewis (after C.S.Lewis) disappeared yesterday. He never misses a meal. My cat is amazing, and I feel like everyone is glad he's gone... he has one eye, four teeth and no claws, and the spirit I cannot contain, so out the dog door he went. Local feral cats my MIL feeds made me his personal groomer as he cannot groom off all the scabs. He sleeps with me nightly. I need to stop it.
The next thing was explaining to my cousin the whole Dad thing, and wishing I could have been so careless as to not call her. I sat on a pine cone.
So then Netflix screws up and I get not my laptop. I find more things. I want to just explode. You know, I've been pretty hellacious to deal with concerning this topic, but I get more sidestepping. I'm done waiting. I love him, and well , I'm not the stupid troll under the Billy Goat's Gruffs bridge.
I feel so Malignant and definitely want to push that away, but no one at the moment could convince me that retribution reverberates louder than my amp can vibrate the house. And again I feel outside myself clinically because no one actually knows or believes much more than the part about being able to suck start a Harley.. and I didn't start that rumor because screw Harley's... Ricerockets have toeholds... and trust me, you could be the bitch and I won't bat an eyelash.
I've seen that from every angle my whole life. So shakily I consider donning the disco ball confidence, and in some way, exceed proving a point... the concept is to remind the weasels that I'm just a minx slumming (as a friend so eloquently told me)
So real talk: Family talk sucks, my sister sucks, I miss my cat, I hate Netflix, I have to forgive him again, I want to beat something vigorously or burn the house down, but in truth I will:
wear polka dots, hang missing signs, still be mad, love my dog, go drive Betty to the dealership, and pretend nothing is wrong until its in my sweaty hand. The phone to call BFI will be in the other. Or convince a rat to do it.. yes, matches and knife...
Just pretend that statement is on the side of a cigarette box to warn of my wiles, but light it up, outside. And for the love of Pete, don't throw butts in my yard.
I realize in the face of a fizzling cold war that has taken a turn towards nuclear threats has truly brought out my inner Howard Stern, though I confess I should probably add a smidgen of Dr. Phil, but forget the yellow tie. So yes, to follow shall be a frothy bitch session followed by the desire to hear 'Cry Me A River' so I can fake some tears for that damned tie. Not because I cannot cry, oh please, I simply have no more tears and I have fallen for the theory one must cry late at night and alone, but be sure to wash afterwards. Since when did crying become a sign of a weak person? The thing is, when I stop crying, whomever is court reporter had best make a note of it, as I stop being a shiny thing, and shift into survival mode. There are a few different models, and well, its time to put on makeup and an outfit that makes weaker men look away for fear I might devour them whole. The sad thing is, most people never see this me, as I take her out for a spin alone, as its more fun being the unattainable trophy that picks out the menu...
I am kind of losing focus here. I go from beaten puppy dog to egotistical witch, and I cannot decide whether or not to just let that ride and wait. I just got finished making huge signs to hang in the neighborhood because my Cat Lewis (after C.S.Lewis) disappeared yesterday. He never misses a meal. My cat is amazing, and I feel like everyone is glad he's gone... he has one eye, four teeth and no claws, and the spirit I cannot contain, so out the dog door he went. Local feral cats my MIL feeds made me his personal groomer as he cannot groom off all the scabs. He sleeps with me nightly. I need to stop it.
The next thing was explaining to my cousin the whole Dad thing, and wishing I could have been so careless as to not call her. I sat on a pine cone.
So then Netflix screws up and I get not my laptop. I find more things. I want to just explode. You know, I've been pretty hellacious to deal with concerning this topic, but I get more sidestepping. I'm done waiting. I love him, and well , I'm not the stupid troll under the Billy Goat's Gruffs bridge.
I feel so Malignant and definitely want to push that away, but no one at the moment could convince me that retribution reverberates louder than my amp can vibrate the house. And again I feel outside myself clinically because no one actually knows or believes much more than the part about being able to suck start a Harley.. and I didn't start that rumor because screw Harley's... Ricerockets have toeholds... and trust me, you could be the bitch and I won't bat an eyelash.
I've seen that from every angle my whole life. So shakily I consider donning the disco ball confidence, and in some way, exceed proving a point... the concept is to remind the weasels that I'm just a minx slumming (as a friend so eloquently told me)
So real talk: Family talk sucks, my sister sucks, I miss my cat, I hate Netflix, I have to forgive him again, I want to beat something vigorously or burn the house down, but in truth I will:
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