Ready for Right Now
I desire to find you now.I am going to give up soooo much just to meet you and take a chance on true love. I have shed tears every time I read a romantic greeting card because I do not have someone to tell those beautiful things to-(ok i feel like crying)!! The next lady to connect with me will be the happiest on the planet because I have learned soo much being in a loveless relationship. I can't wait to snuggle with you. And kiss you lightly. And breathe slowly as I whisper how much I love your eyes. Whew...thanks for reading this and if interested send me a note.
I knew I shouldn't have played Scrabble in that fragrant puddle of zephyr excrement. Because suddenly I feel violently ill.
But was it the zephyr dumplings? Or was it something else? I felt really good at first, but suddenly got really sick. Like when I used to play "Name That Gland" with my Cub Scout Troop Leader.
Maybe it was something I read. Something cheesy and totally unappetizing, like an old Beef Hot Pocket wrapped in a bad personal ad, served with a bowl of twice-salted horse shit and a bucket of starched muenster.
At first this personal ad mimicked a dainty quail feather dusting lightly against my esophagus. It tickled, like a baby bunny giggling sawdust from his nostrils into my eustachian tubes. Warm waves of hope and sunshine licked at my heart like trickling aqua waves spilling onto the shore of a summer pond in a cool breeze.
But my stomach began to gurgle and pulse when he took a chance on true love, and I took a chance not running to the toilet with my finger in my mouth and my cheeks blown full of partially digested Doritos.
He shed tears as he read a greeting card, but I had no tears to shed as I had already extracted my own eyeballs with a rusty garden trowel and grated them on an industrial cheese slicer to forever sear the images of his faulty prose from my synapses.
He wanted to snuggle. I wanted to beat his grandmother with a Christmas rake.
He wanted to kiss you lightly. I wanted to donkey-punch a newborn giraffe in the appendix.
He wanted to whisper in your ear. I wanted to detach from society, build a nest in my laundry hamper, lie in the fetal position, and lick the scant moisture from a satchel of skinned grapes until I withered away from scurvy.
Maybe I'm over-reacting. But these estrogen-fueled pantywaists posting their sing-song suck-up sonnets and dreamy haikus need to stop gurgling Massengill and climb off their My Pretty Pony for a second and realize that while I may think you're a pussy, women think you're even more of a pussy than I do.
Women have enough drama with one pussy as it is. They don't need another one.