Nothing’s funny. Hmm…
The next day, after 12 hours sleep…
OMFG – i’m alive again! I wouldn’t say i feel great, i still have a cold, but was exhausted, and am definitely better today. The drugs seem to be working too.
I am annoyed though. *there is a phoomph sound as a bunny not quick enough to get out of the way suddenly combusts as i glare at it* The local council told me that without photos of the prick the neighbour who cut the trees down in the park, they couldn’t prosecute.
I couldn’t ID him, it was dusk, even though i know what house he’s from. So instead of a hefty fine, they will … *drumroll* send out a letter. Gosh, how harsh. Of course, neighbour doesn’t give a shit, he doesn’t live here, never has, he bought the house to renovate and make a profit.
Once i come into my birthright as the Queen of Darkness, I’ll have neighbour strung up by his testicles. *me waving my arms around in an angry fashion causes a small child passing on a bicycle to self-combust*
Meanwhile, on Twitter, *smiles sweetly cos the PR people say i’m scaring you* there are 185 people i Follow. I’d like to follow more, but am finding some people really do post about nothing. Which you can get away with if you’re funny.
It seems to work best from those pretending to be cats, or fish. Or Amish. @sockington, @ericasfish, and @hotamishchick, for instance. All can be found on Twitter’s search page. Leave off the @ symbol or the Find People function doesn’t work.
Me, i mostly pretend to be human , even though i rarely feel like one. I mostly feel like an alien – though after all these years on this planet, I’m quite good at passing for human. A bit like a transsexual who’s not too tall, or bulky, and manages to get into the ladies’ loo without women hitting ‘her’ with handbags. (See my dilemma over transgender naming here. I am not prejudiced, i’m just female.)
I’m pretty sure that I’m not actually human. Hell, i may not even be female – kids bore me, so do women who can only talk about kids or persuading some waste of space to commit to marriage. When i was younger i often found myself talking to men at parties.
They could at least talk about things other than persuading other men to marry them by any means possible – faking pregnancy was popular – and what kind of tablecloths they’d have for the wedding.
To my surprise, this is still the fashion today – passive-aggressive emotional manipulation to get an apparently disinterested man to commit. We’ve come a long way, baby.
Women are touchy about women who don’t fit in – especially if they’re talking to men at parties. This means women will call you a whore – yep, i became a whore before i even got past kissing and into being bent. Mind you, being a sexually-inactive whore was preferable to being bored to death by women whose aspirations ended with the wedding reception.
Women are also touchy about nipples – for some reason women HATE women who show nipples. *rolls eyes* Like my nipples are deliberate. That would be a trick, making my nipples get hard on command. UP BOYS!
It’s a fricking physical reaction, Fangorella, (my current generic term for women who get off on putting me down), they stick out like that if something brushes against them – or if it’s chilly. It doesn’t mean i’m suddenly about to jump your partner – or that i’m feeling horny – it means there’s a draught! *coughs to hide the sound of the phoomph as another passing child explodes, and smiles nicely again*
Oh – feel i should add, i don’t mean i’m exposing my nipples at parties – like a quick flash to the blokes round the barbie – i mean that even in a padded bra, under a thick top, if i get chilled, they can stand out.
Anyway, enough about my nipples. Or not… wtf was i talking about?
Gosh, these drugs are good.
As if you couldn’t guess, this post brought to you by
the voices-outside-my head.
are to be ignored – the ones outside, i listen to.