fobbing off

Just getting up from the Ditch of Despond and climbing back onto the Carousel of Crazy: An overview

Hello, many of you have written to ask if I’m OK.

Actually, that’s a blatant lie, not a single one of you has written, sent a message in an old Shiraz bottle, hired a bird from “Carrier Pigeons Plus” or done any of those “too busy to express how little I care but spending a portion of my vast disposable income on something that gives ME a laugh will substitute, sort of, and anyway, like it or lump it” things that would lead me to believe that my followers are actually, you know.

Following me.horror

You may be wondering: I’m living solo at home again.  Yeah, you can hold off sending in an application.  For my bedroom, during the past three and a half years, eight months, two weeks and five days, has served much the same function as John Hurt’s belly in Alien, or, should you insist on CanCon, one of Genevieve Bujold’s uteri in Dead Ringers:-

A safe haven for those who, having mastered the appearance of what currently passes for normal until the agreement is signed, are looking for a space in which to achieve their true form, then, having gorged to repletion on whatever leathery tubes and lobes are to hand, explode into existence as yet another iteration of bucking, wiggling nameless horror.

And have YOU cleaned exploded abdomen off your bedroom walls lately?  Five cans of Comet later my hands are like two red udders, and just TRY telling your building management that it’s from spending too much time skiing in Gstaad.   Like, seriously??!!

So, in the interests of keeping my blog alive, I hereby demonstrate my well-honed off-fobbing skills with an animated GIF, those Lascaux cave paintings of the early Web which have now resurfaced as the crack cocaine of social media—and animated GIFs of cats are the true, pure Colombian shit.

Just don’t cut yourself on the nasty, sharp, broken edges of your monitor in your haste to sample the goods.  There’s a petal.  Cause open sores on the lips don’t jibe with that Craigslist ad of yours that goes

“Chew!  My!  Nipples!!?? Barely legal teen, up to two fingers, wants horizons expanded!! Orange toupées, billionaires and sponge-y, fleeting hard-ons front of line!!  OMFG??!! Looking??!! for NOW???!!! PayPal???!!!”

Cats, in case you hadn’t noticed, are the second-most pathetically laughable beings on the planet, combining as they do unshakeable belief in their entitlement to your slavery, a chilly dignity that is 99% condescension, and an unbridled, nobody’s-watching, let-your-fur-down, meaningless and self-serving acrobatic idiocy.

Second-most.

So, then.  Wanna know how I’m doing, solo once more?  Since you asked?

cat-somersault

« À bientôt, ma Virginia collective, à bientôt … »

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Memory Lane, c/o The Little Cottage with the Delphiniums, Cabbagetown, Toronto.

The Eponymous Delphiniums. Since you asked.

The eponymous Delphiniums. Since you asked.

Yes, it’s nostalgia time here at slowpainful dot com, and this of course means I’m going to fob you off with repurposed material.  Never, and believe me when I say it, NEVER forget how good I am to you.

The first barrel of crude comes courtesy of, you guessed it, my fracking source of choice for black, sticky narcissism, Facebook.   What would I do with my time otherwise?  Clean the apartment? Fuddle-duddle! 

(Justin, baby, did you catch my little quote from Papa Trudeau?   My little fresh-from-the-oven brioche!  Now  answer your frickin’ phone, OK?)

fiddlesticks

If you click on the image – oh, snookums, as if you haven’t already, c’mon now, own up – you’ll be transported back to a kinder, gentler time of stockpiled egg whites and their invaluable quick life tip.  Trust me when I say that my brutal honesty around this particular hack has saved many, many a marriage from actually taking place.

And if the stiffening peaks of my meringue leave your heart cold as a baked Alaska, allow me, if you will, to regale you with the updated semi-colons and changed text color on my post » Sacramento! and other useful California expressions.  This is what we call, in “Innernet” jargon, a refresh.

So if you’re planning an ill-advised trip to California, or just looking to toss, as it were, some sparkly Epsom salts into the flat, tepid bathwater that is your sorry excuse for a life, I urge you to check it out.

Yes, I am, and thanks as always for being so in-my-face about it!

Thus, in summary, never, never forget how – hmmm?  Oh, I did — ?