Living alone hasn't done much for my ladylike vocabulary. Small irritations I might have shrugged off in silence when loved ones and bystanders were near now have their own, private R-rated soundtrack. Hooked on swearing works for me.
My profani-meter blips Just since yesterday...
Hit the wrong guitar string.
Forgot to save Flash document.
Got to the cafeteria 30 seconds after the gate closed.
Couldn't find my phone,
Couldn't find my glasses.
Couldn't find my sunglasses.
Couldn't find my keys.
Forgot my university email password.
Lost my flash drive.
Missed the bus by this much.
Photo wouldn't upload.
Hair wavy and stupid in humidity.
Guitar-induced pinky cramp.
Big clump of hair (not mine) in shower drain.
No hummus on salad bar.
Out of blog ideas. :-)
Bike rider on sidewalk nearly flattened me without warning.
Roller blader on sidewalk, ditto.
Facilities management golf cart on sidewalk, double ditto.
If I had a swear jar, and I were to deposit a quarter per word/phrase, I could buy quite a bit of mouth-washing-out soap, especially if I went to Costco.
I hope to recover from my solitude-induced Tourette's before returning to civilization.
No promises, though.
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1 comment:
Oh geez...ya gonna have ta clean up some of the profanity before you come back to 9...ha ha! loved this entry...and looking forward to your return. teri ann
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