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Jan. 26th, 2007 03:48 pmNo more Post-Its.
This I could deal with.
No more vagina.
This I could not deal with.
And I was not-dealing with it exceptionally well. And by not-dealing, I mean screaming. And flailing. And screaming some more.
But because screaming always seemed much more productive when you had someone to scream at, I stumbled out of a very unfamiliar bed, a very unfamiliar hut, and onto very unfamiliar ground before taking off at the speed of light for, well, nowhere specific, really.
It only occurred to me after ten minutes of straight, mildly hysterical sprinting, that if I didn't slow down I was going to pass out soon. Luckily, I'd grown a nice pair of runner's legs and an impressive set of lungs overnight, so that point of exhaustion didn't quite smack me in the face until I realized I'd somehow run myself right over to the Asshole hut.
Note to Self: Tell inhabitants of Asshole hut to make a damned "Beware of Not Exactly Scary But Definitely Annoying When You're Having A Crisis Dog" sign for their front not-quite yard.
Looking back, I'm amazed I didn't break down the door, because my man arms totally could have demolished the place. Somehow I managed just to flip the latch instead of shred the door to firewood, but that dog just... just started yapping like a rabid yappy thing.
Modesty also didn't even occur to me at the time. I mean, why would it? I was wearing not my own boxers but someone else's for some perfectly good reason that went right along with a perfectly good explanation for why I had, "A penis!" I roared, beads flying around my head and smacking me in the nose when I stormed into what I'd hoped was the right bedroom.
"There's a penis in my boxers and it brought its friends along!" My voice was ridiculously deep and outrageously indignant as opposed to a high-pitched squeal for help. "I mean, I'm all for growing a set, but figuratively. Fig-ur-a-tive-ly. Metaphors! Metaphors! What's wrong with metaphors? I was doing just fine with metaphors! I like metaphors!"
This I could deal with.
No more vagina.
This I could not deal with.
And I was not-dealing with it exceptionally well. And by not-dealing, I mean screaming. And flailing. And screaming some more.
But because screaming always seemed much more productive when you had someone to scream at, I stumbled out of a very unfamiliar bed, a very unfamiliar hut, and onto very unfamiliar ground before taking off at the speed of light for, well, nowhere specific, really.
It only occurred to me after ten minutes of straight, mildly hysterical sprinting, that if I didn't slow down I was going to pass out soon. Luckily, I'd grown a nice pair of runner's legs and an impressive set of lungs overnight, so that point of exhaustion didn't quite smack me in the face until I realized I'd somehow run myself right over to the Asshole hut.
Note to Self: Tell inhabitants of Asshole hut to make a damned "Beware of Not Exactly Scary But Definitely Annoying When You're Having A Crisis Dog" sign for their front not-quite yard.
Looking back, I'm amazed I didn't break down the door, because my man arms totally could have demolished the place. Somehow I managed just to flip the latch instead of shred the door to firewood, but that dog just... just started yapping like a rabid yappy thing.
Modesty also didn't even occur to me at the time. I mean, why would it? I was wearing not my own boxers but someone else's for some perfectly good reason that went right along with a perfectly good explanation for why I had, "A penis!" I roared, beads flying around my head and smacking me in the nose when I stormed into what I'd hoped was the right bedroom.
"There's a penis in my boxers and it brought its friends along!" My voice was ridiculously deep and outrageously indignant as opposed to a high-pitched squeal for help. "I mean, I'm all for growing a set, but figuratively. Fig-ur-a-tive-ly. Metaphors! Metaphors! What's wrong with metaphors? I was doing just fine with metaphors! I like metaphors!"
