Watch Out Folks, She's Gonna Blow

Heh. I said she's gonna blow. *snort* Too bad I tickle myself so easily-for YA'LL, not for me!

So I've been thinking a lot about yesterday's post, and what is making me so supremely wormy, and I think I fingered something out. And before I delve into this, let me start by saying this is not about YOU *looks to the west* or about anyone else in particular, so don't go getting your knickers all in a twist and send me "Have I done something to make you mad?" emails. This is about ME.

I guess New Years coupled with this trip and the fact that the Innocent Bystander asks me way too frequently what it is actually that he pays me for made me decide to try to class up my act a bit. I am usually a pretty much what you see is what you get kinda girl, but in the interest of preserving the life to which I've become accustomed, I came to the conclusion that I needed to purty things up. I am deceptively high maintenance, and I know how HE thinks ("You can't polish a turd, Jackie") so I got out my lotions and potions and goos and have been trying to shine just a little. Sometimes it seems an exercise in futility, but now and then I see a glimmer of something that gives me hope.

Enter the flies in the ointment. I have been forced in the last few days to recognize some lumps in the oatmeal of me. The underlying brass sometimes shows through despite my best efforts to electroplate myself in the platinum of life, and it just gnaws at me like a dog worrying a fresh meaty bone. Sometimes I just hate being human.

Sometimes I forget things, which freaks me the hell out because I am so farking paranoid about Alzheimer's disease. Sometimes I am, against my better judgement, very judgemental (HA! WHO, ME??). Too many times more than I care to admit I am impatient and intolerant, mostly of STUPID PEOPLE (again, who, me? Judgemental?) and I want to pinch their little pointy heads off and spit down their necks. I am pretty good about not mouthing off when I am angry, because that is when I use words as weapons, and sometimes they make wounds that are harder to heal than any surgical incision, but I fear that the next dipshit asshole that crosses my path is going to be walking into a shitstorm of vitriol the likes of which I would not wish on Beelzebub himself. I am Vesuvius just waiting for Pompei, dammit.

So I guess he's right. There just isn't enough polish for this turd.