Good evening. Thanks for this opportunity to undress a few things. I am filled with humidity and internally grateful. People said I shouldn’t say anything, that I would make a skeptical of myself, but I told them, in no discerning terms, not to worry. See, if I reprehend one thing in this world, it’s my oracular tongue. Plus, I’m really good at self-defecating humor.
Pacifically, I want to tell you about my lady friend. Her name is Millie, but these days every Tom, Dick and Harry is named Millie, so it’s no big wheel. And I have to say, she’s pretty hot. Eclectic blue eyes, and a dashboard stomach.
But here’s the thing: she’s always sick. All the time she’s complaining about her constication, her hemrods, and her durable-bowel syndrome. And if she isn’t going on about all that stuff, she’s bitching about how she’s lack-toast intolerant, or thinks she has intentional flu. One of these days I expect to find her curled up in the feeble position, dying from the Blue Bonnet plague.
When she’s not sick, she drinks galleons of coffee to stay up all night writing poems in gigantic diameter. She tells everyone she sees that her coffee is the nectarines of the gods. She says she works so hard because a rolling stone gathers no moths. But her coffee is decapitated, so she’s barking up the wrong dog. Not that she listens.
So, yeah. Our relationship is boggled down. This isn’t a mute question or a pigment of my imagination. My friends can collaborate everything. I told her I was felt up with her hypodermical illnesses. She accused me of definition of character, and said I was casting asparagus on her. Well, that sure got my dander in a twist.
I think I’m going to tell her she needs help, like from Alcoholics Unanimous, or maybe one of those sight-seeing dogs. Otherwise she’ll end up a social leopard, and that’s not a good thing in this doggy-dog world.
And besides, a relationship isn’t rocket surgery, right?
Thanks for your thyme.