I am short on time, strapped for minutes, hours, seconds. The fuck is that about? Sure isn't Gimme just a apron-stringed housewife who sits around all day, supping lattes with the other yummy mummies, discussing the upcoming SUV demolition derby? Well, yes, as a rule. But this week is different.
Get this folks, this is a scale of sadosity, a pinnacle of pathetic that you would do well to aspire to: I am too busy to bleugh because of bleughing events. I have shit to organize, clothes to wash, training beers to blast. And all to put myself repeatedly in a position where I find myself reminded of those discussions with my mother in law that turn into arguments because she keeps fucking changing sides. To whit, a position of frustration and discomfort.
This most profound remark I have come across in the last couple of days appeared on the Irish Blog Awards website where some guy called Rowan, when faced with the question 'So who do you want to meet at the Blog Awards?' opined:
Isn't that the whole point of blogging?
A fucking men is what I say to that. Testify, brother.
I do this shit so that I don't have to talk to people, I do this shit so that I might speak loudly, angrily and without interruption, I do this shit so that I can edit myself. Because as some of you may soon I find out, I desperately, bitterly need an editor. When I was 19 I accidentally called a girl whom I really, really fancied and who, I venture to suggest, really, really fancied me, a dog. How does one call someone a dog by accident? I lack the time to elaborate, but like so much disappointment and embarrassment in my life it was all the fault of the Irish language.
So if, over the coming days, I call you a dog, or a cunt or an opinianted, two-faced wind-up merchant stalker fuckwit who is using dyslexia as an excuse to justify a lack of willingness to do everybody else the common courtesy of enabling Firefox's internal spell checker, then it's almost certainly an accident. Except for that last one. That's on purpose.
And watch out for the flailing. I flail an awful lot when I'm excited, tense, off my face on drugs or just chatting in a relaxed manner. Keep your hands on your drinks at all times when in the presence of Gimme. Don't be one of those many ladies who will inevitably have pints of Guinness emptied all over their pretty going out dresses. Don't be one of those lads who spends the evening looking like they have just pissed themselves. You have been warned and I will not be held responsible.
Barring any further all out family trauma that must immediately be shared with the world, that's me for the week. I may vomit something out on Sunday, and I may post too, but I leave for Spain on Monday and I lack belief in V's ability to provide me with a stable connection. So enjoy the awards if you're going (keep the flattery thing in mind) and bask in the serentity of your first ever me free week. First ever if you're counting from July. And why would you do otherwise?
Night, night, chowheads.
Start to slide out of touch
5 days ago