Flat
Flat. Flat, flat, flat. Flat as a pancake, flat as an apartment, flat as a deflated balloon, flat as a three day old glass of coke. That's how I feel. Obviously my chestal area is as inflated as ever, but my soul has been crushed by the bleak and desolate numbness of existence. No, not crushed; that implies an excitement, simply worn down. Eroded by the insidious tedium of survival. The sheer ease of continuance, the lack of drama and adrenalin, the monotony of working, sleeping, eating, evacuating, abluting. Jeez. Where are the martinis? Where are the yachts? The dates, even? When did I become a middle-aged suburban housewife without the husband or kids? AM I settling down? If so, why? AM I actually disappearing up my own arsehole?
posted by badgerbadger @ 6:56 pm
3 Comments:
Badge, honey.
The reason you are feeling flat is that after having me in your house for a weekend, with my sparkling wit, repartee and general bonhomie, literally anything> is going to feel dull by comparison.
See? See how obvious things are when you think them through?
Hmm. Both interesting thoughts. And I sneeze at both of you. I fart in your general direction. And, what's more, I bite my thumb at you. You're both as mad as balloons and madder than a box of frogs.
(No offence, of course :o))
Either way, if you disappear up your own arse, your breath is going to stink.
Just a thought to be getting on with.
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