Thursday, February 2, 2012

At Least It's Not Kim Richards

Some weeks can only be summed up by the rubbery hot dog muse that is the mouth of Taylor Armstrong. Because Monday was so totally this:
Followed quickly by the bitch-just-you-try-and-flatten-me-down that is this clammy low (dude, it was bad)...And as is my wont (who even says that anymore?), my mood rapidly switched...A slippery slope slide into the abyss of absurdity. (If you look deep enough, I think you may spot Camus.) I.e. shit got funny, fast.The rest of the week I just sort of hung on by the mehness of it all...
At some point I may or may not have done this, though really that's none of your beeswax.
And now it is pretty much Friday and I am plum tuckered, my emotions frayed, skin dry, mouth tired of moving.
As the divine Taylor says each week, I have finally found my voice and I'm not afraid to use it. Which, yeah, awesome for the both of us Taylor, the thing is, don't know about you, but I haven't got much more to say.