08.31.05

Another exclamation point and not a period. Oy vey.

As I get older the pain and crampage gets worse. I fear that by the time I hit menopause, once a month they'll have to lock me in an isolation ward in a strait-jacket, and dose me with Valium or methadone or straight morphine.

I knew it was bad; FNG's pretentions were exceptionally annoying today. The gall to attempt to enlighten me on vodka. Darlin', innocent boy, I was drinking people under the table before you were a gleam in your daddy's eye. Not to mention, I'm going to take the advice of someone who thinks that Bailey's Irish Creme is palatable? Nay, delicious? Cretin.

I bet that boy has never hunkered under a table in a biker bar in Southern Virginia, trading tequila shots with the barkeep, while a pool cue/long neck Budweiser fight was raging overhead.

Huh. Lecture. Go away, you little nose-picker, yer botherin' me.

Gosh. I hope I'm less bitchy and intolerant tomorrow. Perhaps, if past experience is any guide, the crampage will have abated, and I'll be more forgiving.

Here's hoping.

Go. Be fabulous.

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