Tangent, tangent, tangent. It’s pretty much what I do.
I talk with Brian often and honestly about the need to assuage my own guilt over matters in my life far outside of my control. That I understand they’re out of my control should be the point of this discussion, however, have you met my Catholic guilt?
“Oh, hey, don’t mind me, y’all, I’m over here with the Body of Christ, just running through the list of 1999 through 2008. It’s a long one. Gonna be some hail Mary’s happening tonight, y’all, I wouldn’t wait up if I were you”.
If we’re being frank, I knew she was guilty when I laid eyes on her. She just had that whole shifty appearance thing happening, you get where I’m coming from? The bitch looked guilty. Yes, I said it.
I have this obsession with atonement. This mental plus and minus version of chess that just put me 2 moves outside of checkmate and I’m starting to sweat, ironically, like a whore in church.
I don’t know what struck me so funny with that last line, but I nearly peed a little. Add that to your list, Catholic guilt. I know for a fact you’re not allowed to pee in the pews.
So, as we near the point of sacrilege with this column, I guess my point is this. I don’t feel nearly as good with myself today, simply because I haven’t been doing as much good. Perhaps today I’ll find some doors to kick in with my Loubou…uh, uh…guilt or not, those are $400 heels, you put the Eastlands on before you go ham.
As a woman consumed with the tally of her scorecard, I know that when I last ran the numbers, I didn’t account for this week off. Now, my markers are squeaking right along and I’m just huffing the dry erase fumes and getting giggly, pretending I won’t need my calculator to carry the 2.
At this rate, I’ll simply be leaning against the 2, hoping simple inertia does the remainder of the work.
So, before these markers dry out and I switch to popping brain cells on batteries, let me run my PSA.
Ladies, if you need me, I’m on the hotline.
People, if you’re in a bad way and you can’t feed your pets, also ring a bitch on the hotline.
Everything you say to me is between you and me and these markers, which, by the way, smell fucking great. Even the green one.
Just stop by the confessional and leave your info with that bitch that looks like she’s trying to shoplift the holy water. Make sure she hears you coming, though, that bitch has bad nerves.
With zero religion in my life, I fucking love this. But hear me when I say there ain't no damn thing wrong with a bitch taking a week off. Take two. Now come week 3, if we're still rolling in a cloud of Fuckboy dust, there may be an intervention. ❤ ya