Bullshit-intolerant

So I was thinking, since we can’t figure out the source of my allergy; guava has been exonerated because my trachea was swollen shut yet again today, despite the fact that guava never broke the restraining order and had an alibi, I have worked it out in my head quite wonderfully into a compromise. According to my previous post, “Guava kills and people don’t give a shit”, it would most fitting that I be bullshit-intolerant, that way I’d be able to detect when people actually do give it, besides there’s nothing else to pin it to and I almost died twice. I’m looking on the bright side, I mean, how many of us experience what it feels like for a cat to choke up on a hairball? Now I do, and I didn’t even have to wait for my next life for that. Meh

It has been a good couple of days, I’ve resisted the urge to write about them since it’s too crowded inside my head I don’t want you rummaging around in it too. Yes you. Besides, they’re my memories, not yours. Get a life. This blog is not for living vicariously through me. And yet again I find myself talking back to that certain hostile figment of my imagination being an insufferable know-it-all. You’re beginning to grow on me I should give you a name. 9 seconds later, after googling “annoying names”, a light bulb popped up on the top of my head Looney-tunes-style, how about calling it The Grr? Yea, most gibing.

After re-reading the last paragraph, The Grr answered back.

The Grr: This is puh-tha-tick.

Again, resisting the urge to spend the rest of this post making a conversation with the certain hostile fig…I mean the Grr, I’ve decided to go on with the argument in my head while keeping you ransacking dweeb out of it. I abuse my Grr, you abuse yours.

Moving on, as if being deluged in piano work was not enough, I got assigned a 413-page book, with a genre that I don’t remotely like, to get done by Monday –Yup that’s one day after piano lesson, so they’ve got to overlap – and actually research the 6 books in the diarrheic series the author nonsensically worked up, to write a book review. If that’s not frustrating enough, the 250 word limit is too limiting. How the hell do I go over 6 books and discuss the seventh in less than half a page?

Now, what really gets to me about all of this is that every time I try to vent to someone about whatever crap that hit the fan on my side of the bargain, they seem to come up with the perfect excuse to own the rights of moaning and make you feel hangdog for even considering to inhale some more oxygen to finish your sentence. By that I mean a friend complaining about having to type out an interview of a dude with an accent even before I got to mention 25o words wouldn’t justifiably cover a brainfart. It's not just you by the way, you’re just the last one in my short-term memory register. Annnnnnnnnd I think the last venture just lost me a current reader. Dude, don’t go. You have the right to quetch, anything you say or think can and will be kept in my head next time, next to the Grr and right in the ransacking-free area.

The Grr: Puh-thaa-tiiiiiick. Ha!

If you’ll just excuse me I’ll go smack the living hallelujahs out of the Grr and get back to you.