Need a pen, Freud?
I dreamed I was Whitney Tyler last night. I was staring in the mirror, trying to get the snot out of my moustache so I could talk to Craig when he finished ascending the stairs in the house I grew up in.
What, me waitress?
I'm gonna start sectioning my blog Frasier-style.
Still haven't heard from the boss. I'm definitely fired. I suppose it's for the best, but I can't stop fantasizing about confrontations with the man who done me dirty. My new favorite goes as follows: I've got snot in my moustache, and I'm trying to get it out. Just kidding. In my fantasy, he brings his family to eat at the Lobster Inn, where I'm clearly loved and wanted. He orders a lobster, but the kitchen fails to cook it properly and it becomes reanimated on his plate, snipping his schnozz. A nasty infection follows, then death. The restaurant becomes a Planned Parenthood. Feminism prevails.
What, me waitress?
I'm gonna start sectioning my blog Frasier-style.
Still haven't heard from the boss. I'm definitely fired. I suppose it's for the best, but I can't stop fantasizing about confrontations with the man who done me dirty. My new favorite goes as follows: I've got snot in my moustache, and I'm trying to get it out. Just kidding. In my fantasy, he brings his family to eat at the Lobster Inn, where I'm clearly loved and wanted. He orders a lobster, but the kitchen fails to cook it properly and it becomes reanimated on his plate, snipping his schnozz. A nasty infection follows, then death. The restaurant becomes a Planned Parenthood. Feminism prevails.
3 Comments:
As usual, this is delightful. Your boss is an idiot, and Whitney looks like Jesus or George Harrison. But I'm appalled at the lack of me in this post. Surely you could squeeze me in there somewhere between the moustache and the overthrow of patriarchy.
If I'm not an integral part of your dreams and vengeful fantasies, I just don't think we can be friends.
Me me me me me.
Me.
But don't you see, my love? You're everywhere. In my hair, under my mattress, in the bottom drawer where I keep my buzzzies, in my mind...
We've been friends for five whole years next month. Champagne? Yes, I think so.
Holy effing crap. I've totally not followed on my original double secret diabolical plan to gain your favor and wait until you cut your hair and then encourage you to have laser surgery on your eyes and then — oh, I've said too much!!
Happy anni-friend-versary! We'll paint the town red with the blood of infidels when I visit.
I just got deja vu. I think I've said something about painting the town red with the blood of infidels before.
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