Life. What's up with that?
Hormones. I got me some hormones. Lots of 'em. All over the place.* And right now, they're angry. and they're taking it out on me. Now I can totally understand where they're coming from: it's crowded in there and they'er not getting up to much, aside from getting really excited occasionally when they think there might be some action or activity, which there isn't**, and hence their disappointment. So there they are, lounging around and grumbling, doing yoga and whatnot, and becoming increasingly cranky. I guess it must be akin to cabin fever.
As with all housebound inmates, cooped up and full of unexpended vigour, they look to spread their misery and negative feelings. And so they do. They kick around my glands and my language centres and screw with my emotions. They puff up my eyes and sneak extra nastiness into my pores and than make snarky, cutting little remarks about me when they know I can hear them. They pour the vilest thoughts into my ears in the hopes of stoking homicidal rage at the slightest of provocations***.
Right now they're whispering: "Get a haircut, beetch. Get a Pob****. Your hair, she ees lookeeng so bad!*****". They know exactly what to say to drive me crazy. Because I do love angular haircuts...
They're crafty little bitches. But I'm on to them.
* Even in my feet. Even there.
** ever.
*** seriously though, biznatch, stop moaning all day or I'm going to throttle you
****A Posh Bob, like mrs Beckham.
***** oh yeah, my hormones are mexican I forgot to mention.
As with all housebound inmates, cooped up and full of unexpended vigour, they look to spread their misery and negative feelings. And so they do. They kick around my glands and my language centres and screw with my emotions. They puff up my eyes and sneak extra nastiness into my pores and than make snarky, cutting little remarks about me when they know I can hear them. They pour the vilest thoughts into my ears in the hopes of stoking homicidal rage at the slightest of provocations***.
Right now they're whispering: "Get a haircut, beetch. Get a Pob****. Your hair, she ees lookeeng so bad!*****". They know exactly what to say to drive me crazy. Because I do love angular haircuts...
They're crafty little bitches. But I'm on to them.
* Even in my feet. Even there.
** ever.
*** seriously though, biznatch, stop moaning all day or I'm going to throttle you
****A Posh Bob, like mrs Beckham.
***** oh yeah, my hormones are mexican I forgot to mention.
posted by Betenoir at 9:36 AM
6 Comments:
My hormones are gangstas.
They like to call me MotherF*&ker.
Yours sound a little more polite...barely.
hahahaha! YES!
Your posts are always worth waiting for! Sho! mexican moaning-whores... who woulda thunk it?
Lol.
Hope you feel better soon, I miss your comments!
Wooo Saaaa!
I have no idea what you're on about, and I dig that about you!
(actually I do have a smidgeon of a clue...)
;)
don't believe: they're bitches, but they're well-brought-up
Shebee: didja like the oatmeal one? true story!
Chewy: I'm utterly transparent. hehehe.
Loved it, Bete! Brilliant. Would have paid to have been a fly on that wall!
No action? At all?
My Mexicans need to meet yours, esse.
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