Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Sticks and rather oddly shaped, often cool to the touch stones.

Impaired by wordiness.

Apparently that's me. Verbose. I have been accused by a total stranger of being verbose, and what's worse is, I read it on Facebook which makes it even worser (and yes, I know that's not a word, but go ahead call me illiterate too).

Being called verbose on Facebook is worse than saying it to my face, because I hate fucking Facebook for so many reasons I won't go into for fear of being verbose, and because in real life you can just turn the other cheek and say, "Ya, well, you can kiss my lily white, with flecks of pink, oversized ass" and walk away. So, from this moment forward, I am going to get straight to the point and call a spade a spade, instead of a pretty Corsican spade I bought while escaping heartache by guzzling Fiano d'Avellino off the coast of Amalfi when I was much thinner and hadn't built up this resentment against fucking cats and French people and corks that break off half way, especially on Tuesdays because there is nothing, absolutely fucking nothing on television on Tuesdays except the Biggest Loser, which apparently has already been decided and it's verbose ol' me.

Actually, maybe, possibly, if I cut out all the adverbs and all the times I say fuck, or dickwad, or asshole, I could really shorten up my word count, but what fun would that be? What would life be without such fabulous words that describe most drivers, and figure skaters, and people who give their kids hyphenated last names who eventually get all fucked up after the divorce, and delinquent dads, and Shania Twain, and Conservatives and NDP's too, for that matter. Maybe if I removed all adjectives or comments about how useless light mayonnaise is, and who the hell voted for Stephen Harper, and how I love Barack Obama and melted cheese and anchovies, then I could shorten things up a bit.

How be I just stop this nonsense all together and take my energy into the basement where I can build a bomb and make homemade wine in one of those big glass thingies from Wine Kitz in Clayton Park which would save money but would likely end up exploding anyway and turn into a Cabernet Sauvignon bomb because I'd add more sugar to try and get the alcohol content up and BOOM! there would be a bomb-type wine explosion and I would lose my eyesight from shards of glass then I'd have to type blindly and that, for sure would cut back on my verbosity because my typing sucks or maybe it wouldn't because I'd just type LOUDER. But I'd at least gain fame and possibly fortune if I sold my story to some bad tabloid or the Herald or something and I could go down in history as the Wineabomber or something cool like that and way better than dying in a pool of my own filth wearing sweatpants, known only as the bitter, verbose, hockey mom who lived in the house with the awesome geraniums.

She was verbose, but she grew lovely geraniums, it would say in the paper.

I know, I'll just change my style. I'll be nice and write about women's issues and quote Rumithe fucking ridiculous poet my friend who is going through a mid-life, emotional, subsequent weight-loss program crisis keeps quoting who writes shit like:

The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along.”

There. That's my nice Rumi quote of the day. That's Rumi pictured above. How happy does that poor depressed, cross dressing bastard look? Huh? How about that concise bullshit he writes? I say, if my lover is already inside me, then that explains this extra 60 pounds I've been carrying around since, well, puberty so get the hell out loverboy and take me for a romantic dinner.

631 words so far. 634.

Maybe I'll switch to haiku. Here it goes:

I met this guy once
He said he'd call but he didn't
Maybe he lost his fucking fingers.

I know, that's one too many words in that last line but I just couldn't help myself.

Wine Kitz is located at 287 Lacewood Drive in Clayton Park by Home Depot.