Fucking To The Rhythm Of A High Hat
And we don't need a good reason, just like everybody else don't, for their things. Things things. Their whatever things. Hooray for naughty naughty and sore backs, for packed up attics and hamburgers ate, for the marrying kind and their wayward musicians. For men who do laundry and for women who write. Right. Ahh, remember the good ole days when the only work was Man's Work and an American ten could buy a Mexican dime? Yeah, me either.
So, she says to me, she says, "Women always do most of the work." I wish I could agree, Sister, but I know better, so I'll just nod, smile all bright-eyed, and lie by ommission, because I don't want to risk my membership, or status therein, but then I had to say something stupid and put your running list to shame, Criminal, my original Shit-Pop-Off-er and Jack-Off-In-'Er.
"But do you respect that?"
"I respect people who value independent, ethical thought and who aren't so tractable that they automatically believe the first inanity that pops into their head... or that's been planted there..."
"Come again? 'Cause I couldn't hear you over the crickets."
No, no, what she really said was, "I need a dictionary to talk to you! LOL LOL."
No, what you need is a Thiopental beer with a Halothane chaser and to remember that your husband's will is not yours to break, just like your spirit isn't his to. There is a difference between regret and a death wish and I've gone through some shit, too, and I'm not better for it, but I know my limits; and the difference between being feeling under-appreciated and perilously clinging to the waxy threads of sanity. But you're right. No one should be unhappy ever. But enough about you. What I need is to quit being so me and just be the pretty, eternal twenty-something, urbanite party girl I was born and bred to be because I was never a bad baby nor a bad kid, just a bad girl always throwing shit off the cliff just to hear the howls and see the shards. Lucky for me, the queso came and I ran out of cigarettes.
Perspective and perspicacity; easy come, easy go, like the radio signal to a dirty aerial.
So, she says to me, she says, "Women always do most of the work." I wish I could agree, Sister, but I know better, so I'll just nod, smile all bright-eyed, and lie by ommission, because I don't want to risk my membership, or status therein, but then I had to say something stupid and put your running list to shame, Criminal, my original Shit-Pop-Off-er and Jack-Off-In-'Er.
"But do you respect that?"
"I respect people who value independent, ethical thought and who aren't so tractable that they automatically believe the first inanity that pops into their head... or that's been planted there..."
"Come again? 'Cause I couldn't hear you over the crickets."
No, no, what she really said was, "I need a dictionary to talk to you! LOL LOL."
No, what you need is a Thiopental beer with a Halothane chaser and to remember that your husband's will is not yours to break, just like your spirit isn't his to. There is a difference between regret and a death wish and I've gone through some shit, too, and I'm not better for it, but I know my limits; and the difference between being feeling under-appreciated and perilously clinging to the waxy threads of sanity. But you're right. No one should be unhappy ever. But enough about you. What I need is to quit being so me and just be the pretty, eternal twenty-something, urbanite party girl I was born and bred to be because I was never a bad baby nor a bad kid, just a bad girl always throwing shit off the cliff just to hear the howls and see the shards. Lucky for me, the queso came and I ran out of cigarettes.
Perspective and perspicacity; easy come, easy go, like the radio signal to a dirty aerial.
posted by martyr in moderation at 6:35 PM
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