Now, I know that sounds kind of kinky, but I hope you will recall just whose diary you are reading and re-adjust your perceptions accordingly.
It wasn't a wet dream is what I'm getting at. No, sadly it was not. In my dream, as far as I can remember, I was involved in a heated argument with President Bush over what an asshole he is. So, when the simpering butthole asked me "What do you want me to do, resign?!" I replied with a loud "YES!", which woke me up.
I bet my neighbors heard and I bet they think I'm getting some.
The only thing I'm getting is sick. My carpet that is located directly under what used to be the ceiling in my dining room has begun to mold, despite my attempts at drying it with a fan. And I'm rather allergic to mold. I tend to swell up like Violet Beauregard in 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory'. Lord, that's just what I need right now, to be squeezed by midgets.
I don't really want to clean my carpet right now because Pirate-Mouth-Man isn't done yet, but I may have to before I swell up like Harry's Aunt Marge and float away.
Float away, wee fairy!
Anyway, that's my life. Right now for my Reader's Advisory class, I had to read a Western. Much like country-western music, not a genre I'm particularly fond of. But hell, I grew up in the Southwest, I should be used to it by now. Yee-freakin-haw.
Bang, bang, injun, firewater, cattle rustler, bang, bang. I was going to read a Long Arm novel, because my friend Mistress Chicken told me humps everything except his horse, but all our copies were out, so I read an Elmore Leonard instead. It was ok. Bang, bang.
Next week I have to read a bloody inspirational story, which is pretty much Christian fiction. Bleargh. My mom says I should read Thomas Kinkaid: Painter of Schlock's ghostwritten crap. When I asked why, she lowered her voice and intoned ominously: "Know thy enemy, know thy enemy."
She's going through "the change", that's all I have to say.
I don't have to worry about romances, since hell, that's all I've been reading lately, I'm such a whore. My favorite subgenre at this time is 'paranormal romance', but only the funny stuff. I tried to read some serious paranormal romance and it nearly made me slam my head into the nearest wall to stop the pain.
Honestly, do fat, frumpy housewives really believe that somewhere out there is a needy, sensitive and hopelessly sexy vampire who just wants a woman who can understand his pain and maybe give up a little blood now and then? And, do they believe that since he's oh, like 900 years old and 'mature', he'll ignore their size 22-stretch pants and look inside to find their inner beauty before snogging them into unconciousness?
I may be chunky and frumpy but I'm not delusional. I know perfectly well there aren't any sexy vampires out there looking zaftig godesses to heal their broken soul. Doesn't anyone read Anne Rice? All the sexy male vampires are gay! Duh! Hold out for the werewolves, ladies, they're underappreciated, so they'll work harder.
