Ball shaving? I need to limit my drunken typing.
I have difficulty typing out my feelings for things lately. A jumble of stories, words, and badly phrased metaphors swirl around like a tornado that never lands or sends Dorothy off to Oz.
I’ll be vague because I’m not sure what is passing through, if its passing through, or is it just another one of life’s test waiting for the circle marked A,B,C, or all-of-the-above to be completely covered with a No. 2 pencil (they still do this, or am I that old?). Its not poker, its not my kids, its not my marriage, family, friends, work or any one thing that is flashing a bright red, WARNING sign in my face. A little bit of this, a little bit of that has me as confused as boy who just found dad’s Playboy and wondering why he’s interested in only the articles of course.
So, in the mean time I fill my void with disgruntled sarcasm, raising my blood alcohol level to deep end of the pool depths, and fake smiles that look real because even though I’m a horrible poker player, I can show whatever emotion fits the part on the green felt and in my partially finished kitchen.
Maybe I’ll make sense of the past paragraphs sometime as right now they’re what pops into my single digit IQ brain and needed a home. I would like to thank the Brit Bloggerment for bringing back everything I enjoy about Blogger Tourneys (despite me having to leave for daddy duties in the middle). The small field, and lively chat about Football (proper not pigskin), and even some parental sentences being thrown out there made it a cozy chat box versus berating each other’s play as the cards hardly mattered.
Anyone with thoughts on American Gladiators going the way of the WWF? Cut the cheese, keep the breast sizes, and bring back the Saturday morning show many of us watched while waking up late and eating some bacon and eggs. Hellga? Dear lord that woman looks like she could castrate men with one slight thigh squeeze.