What Would I Want to Read this Morning?

“What in the feck would I want to read this morning?”

 

 

“Something with balls.”

 

“Something with funny balls.”

 

I said funny, FUNNY, balls.

 

“Like a poem?”

 

“You don’t really do poetry, Sweet Tits.”

 

“Something Halloweenie?”

 

“Do your really want to read another Halloween-ish thing this morning?  Be honest, you don’t.”

 

“What about the storm?  Should I write about the storm?”

 

“Riders of the storm…”

 

“Jim Morrison, right?”

 

“You should call Wifesy immediately.  You may have actually paired the correct artist with the correct song lyric.”

 

“Or wait, was that Bowie?”

 

“Nope, Morrison.  Don’t be an a-hole.”

 

“I love this coffee.  I think without coffee I’d never sh*t again.”

 

“What is wrong with you?  No one wants to hear about that.”

 

“Why not?  Everyone sh*ts.”

 

“Because it’s crude.  People want elegance not crudeness.  Not crassity.”

 

“Crassity, really?”

 

“Well, maybe I want crassity.”

 

“You’re making up your own language again.  Maybe this is why nothing ever sells.”

 

Is this how you treat things?

 

“None of my writing ever sells?  But, I do, I HAVE sold things.”

 

“Your personal possessions on Ebay don’t count.”

 

“I could never sell anything on Ebay.  I don’t understand Ebay at all.  And why do those Ebay physical stores even exist?  It’s ridiculous.”

 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to capitalize the E in Ebay.  I think it’s ebay.  Now people KNOW that you’re 100 years old.”

 

“Isn’t it weird how Americans spell it capitalize and the British spell it capitalise?”

 

“Not weird enough to spend this much time on.  It’s not a show idea for TLC or anything like that.  That poor girl with two feckin’ heads, now that’s a show for TLC.  People will spend some time on that.”

 

Better than one?

 

“Did you just run out of steam?”

 

“What?”

 

“You stopped to think for a minute.  Did you just bore YOURSELF, approximately 300 words into this post?”

 

“You know what, that’s none of your feckin’ business.”

 

“It is my business.  I’m your brain.”

 

“Then who in the feck am I?”

 

“A good question.  If I knew who I was do you think I’d be talking to you?”

 

“Come on, you don’t know who you are?”

 

“Alright, fine, I’m something akin to your Writer’s Voice, but less cheesy.”

 

“Ha Ha, you just called yourself A-Writer’s-Voice.  That’s so ridiculous.  What are you going to call yourself next, the Artist’s Way?”

 

“Plagiarist.”

 

“That was sarcasm, you a**hole.  Just because you say a word that is the title of an actual published work that doesn’t make you a plagiarist.”

 

“Still, it makes you lacking original thought.”

 

“Why are you so mean?”

 

“I’m not mean.  I’m your balls.”

 

“Oh, right, I forgot you held those.  Could you be a little gentler with them.”

 

“Sure.  Are we cool now?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“See you tomorrow?”

 

“Yep, I’ll be here.”

 

“Start thinking up ideas, okay?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll get right on it…after I finish the contents of this liquor cabinet.”

 

“It’s 10am.”

 

“I am not a physical entity.  So, for me, it’s always 12pm somewhere.”

 

“For everybody, it’s always 12pm somewhere.  That’s the joke.  That you can always make an excuse to drink.”

 

“Your problem is that you’re too literal.”

 

“Maybe, but you have no rules.”

 

“Some truth to that.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Okay, don’t drink too much.  I’ll need you in one piece by then.”

 

“I’m always in one piece.  There’s nothing to break apart.”

 

“Just say goodnight, Gracie.”

 

“Goodnight, Grace Jones.”

 

“Goddermn it!”

 

“I love you.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

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Photo creds:

girl-two-heads, dictionary, furry-balls