I don't think about the things I used to think about.
Except food.
And breasts.
And wine.
On the upside, it seems my inner monologue is plagued with frustrated bursts of obscenity (and given that I am me, instead of just writing obscenity, I'll give some examples... fuck, shit-bastard, cock-balloon, and occasionally just a sort of grunted arrgh). I call this the upside, not just because I like words of which my mother doesn't approve, but because rather than follow my usual train of thought from boobs to "it's been too long since I've made acquaintance with boobs" to "my life is pointless and stupid" and then to "everything is pointless and stupid", my thoughts now go from "hey, aren't boobs great?" to nowhere, because for some reason my brain has bypassed all the steps from initial thought to exasperated nihilistic shouting... and then it's later and I'm tired.
Wish I had a hammock.
Except food.
And breasts.
And wine.
On the upside, it seems my inner monologue is plagued with frustrated bursts of obscenity (and given that I am me, instead of just writing obscenity, I'll give some examples... fuck, shit-bastard, cock-balloon, and occasionally just a sort of grunted arrgh). I call this the upside, not just because I like words of which my mother doesn't approve, but because rather than follow my usual train of thought from boobs to "it's been too long since I've made acquaintance with boobs" to "my life is pointless and stupid" and then to "everything is pointless and stupid", my thoughts now go from "hey, aren't boobs great?" to nowhere, because for some reason my brain has bypassed all the steps from initial thought to exasperated nihilistic shouting... and then it's later and I'm tired.
