A Brief, Non-Pornographic Introduction

Yummy.  A word I use with great frequency given the amount of tongue my neck and ears have been accosted with recently … I’m not complaining … at all.

A former online … companion … acquaintance … drooling, moronic fuck-stain (my subjectivity is dependent entirely on my hormonally induced, ever changing mood) once asked me what I do.  Being a reasonably intelligent person, and having conversed with an inordinate number of half-monkeys through the course of my life, I understood she was inquiring about my profession.  I told her that I was a housewife and that, yes, it was a demanding full-time position … if I wanted smokes, coffee, and sex.  I NEED smokes and coffee … sex can be handled with a little latex friend I keep in the shower.  I consider myself a part-timer.

She told me that I seemed articulate and educated.  I told her the fungus growing between my ears would consider that a compliment.  She then asked about my hobbies.  Believing she might laugh at my immense Lego Collection and not being able to suffer another traumatic blow to my fragile ego, I confided that I occasionally write.  I should mention at this time I’ve yet to finish anything I’ve ever started due to what my sexy psychologist (and he is HOT) refers to as ‘Perpetual Boredom Syndrome and General Inability to Give a Damn’ … PBS&GIGD for those of you who adore and sing praises to the power of acronyms.

She offered a solution to my dilemma.  Considering the depth of witless banter that had volleyed between us over the last few days of our precious, precocious relationship, I looked at her message with a wee-bit of skepticism.  She told me about a book that would help, and I quote “… get those creative juices flowing …” OK, so maybe I paraphrased.

My response is as close to an accurate account as my poor, addled brain will allow me to reproduce:  “I’ve no problem with flowing creative juices.  Quite the opposite, actually.  You see, what I need is a way to make it stop that isn’t related to thorazine.  Think of it this way, I need a little Dutch boy to stick his finger in the broken dyke of my imagination before half of Holland’s population drowns.  Got a book for that?”

I quit the chatroom and never looked back … except to see if I was being followed … by a Thompson wielding walrus named Eddie … who thinks I owe him $20 … because his poor eyesight makes it impossible for him to tell the difference between me and Rudy Giuliani in a High School cheerleader’s uniform …

All Praise the Power of Acronyms!  (APPA!)