As one or more of you may have gathered from my general standard of (il)literacy, Ive been (drivelling) writing online for a while now. Long enough, anyway, that my typing speed is near twice that which I can produce with a pen.
Note: I never said I was any good, only that I did it.
Most people who dont write or blog or otherwise obsess over a keyboard are aware of a similar speed double-standard, in which their faces work twice as fast as their brains. This gives rise to unfortunate situations such as:
Dad. Im gay.
WHAT THE FUCKING HELlways love you for yourself.
And so on.
So when Im actually moved to divulge some portion of my life in the marvellous open forum that is the internet, I tend to let my fingers go further and faster than my more reticent pen otherwise would. please remove all dirty thoughts from that last sentence.
In my last entry I took up a rant about Sundry; someone Ive read more or less constantly for the past three years (which due to personal crisis I neglected for a fair few months). During around two or more years of this time I kept up an online journal of my own and e-mailed her various messages of either appreciation or support. I posted in her guestbook. As in all good chick-flicks: I laughed, I cried, I threw up very slightly whenever there was mention of Hugh Grant.
And the one time I mention anything derogatory I get a whole entry devoted to my dislike of children and her coveting her unborn. Marvelous.
Terrific.
Splendiferous.
Tootin!
F.A.B.
Why Im even writing this now so far after the event and the fifty-thousand-million-zillion people who posted on her site leaving messages of (abject horror) comments on my anti-pregnancy ways, was simply that I never really meant that rant to be about her. I never meant it to attack her hell, I never meant her or anyone she knew to read it. I meant it to illustrate a situation which, fuckit, I have given up trying not to involve. So, to You Know Who You Are:
You are a shimmering herd of idiot. You run wild on the savannah of stupidity, your flanks glistening with duh. Nobody bothers to hunt you, predators just open their mouths wide enough for your imbecilic self to go stampeding straight in. Your child, when you eventually have it, will be the offspring of Tweedledumb and Tweedledumb there is no dum minus a b in your bloodline, much less a dee.
To the boy you swore would never father your child - may lobsters infest your underwear.
That is all.
To Sundry:
I apologise, wholly. My rant should not have been aimed at you. I are fool, and loveth thee with a passion few could dream of. To make up for it, regarde:
SUNDRY: STILL SEXXY DESPITE FRUMPY CHRIS ISAAK ADDICTION
Fun Felidae Fact: Im 25. Im qualified for more things than I can list. I have friends who relish that I want to remain a juvenile human being who spends her free hours driving pointlessly, reading, drinking, eating out, partying, buying clothes, painting, analysing films, going to the gym, and doing burlesque acts. I relish that there are people who relish my doing so. That saidIve read Dooce since Leta first put in an appearance and Ive yet to quit. Relish.
Note: I never said I was any good, only that I did it.
Most people who dont write or blog or otherwise obsess over a keyboard are aware of a similar speed double-standard, in which their faces work twice as fast as their brains. This gives rise to unfortunate situations such as:
Dad. Im gay.
WHAT THE FUCKING HELlways love you for yourself.
And so on.
So when Im actually moved to divulge some portion of my life in the marvellous open forum that is the internet, I tend to let my fingers go further and faster than my more reticent pen otherwise would. please remove all dirty thoughts from that last sentence.
In my last entry I took up a rant about Sundry; someone Ive read more or less constantly for the past three years (which due to personal crisis I neglected for a fair few months). During around two or more years of this time I kept up an online journal of my own and e-mailed her various messages of either appreciation or support. I posted in her guestbook. As in all good chick-flicks: I laughed, I cried, I threw up very slightly whenever there was mention of Hugh Grant.
And the one time I mention anything derogatory I get a whole entry devoted to my dislike of children and her coveting her unborn. Marvelous.
Terrific.
Splendiferous.
Tootin!
F.A.B.
Why Im even writing this now so far after the event and the fifty-thousand-million-zillion people who posted on her site leaving messages of (abject horror) comments on my anti-pregnancy ways, was simply that I never really meant that rant to be about her. I never meant it to attack her hell, I never meant her or anyone she knew to read it. I meant it to illustrate a situation which, fuckit, I have given up trying not to involve. So, to You Know Who You Are:
You are a shimmering herd of idiot. You run wild on the savannah of stupidity, your flanks glistening with duh. Nobody bothers to hunt you, predators just open their mouths wide enough for your imbecilic self to go stampeding straight in. Your child, when you eventually have it, will be the offspring of Tweedledumb and Tweedledumb there is no dum minus a b in your bloodline, much less a dee.
To the boy you swore would never father your child - may lobsters infest your underwear.
That is all.
To Sundry:
I apologise, wholly. My rant should not have been aimed at you. I are fool, and loveth thee with a passion few could dream of. To make up for it, regarde:
SUNDRY: STILL SEXXY DESPITE FRUMPY CHRIS ISAAK ADDICTION
Fun Felidae Fact: Im 25. Im qualified for more things than I can list. I have friends who relish that I want to remain a juvenile human being who spends her free hours driving pointlessly, reading, drinking, eating out, partying, buying clothes, painting, analysing films, going to the gym, and doing burlesque acts. I relish that there are people who relish my doing so. That saidIve read Dooce since Leta first put in an appearance and Ive yet to quit. Relish.
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Top notch.