I’m sure you’re all aware by now, I have a whole style of profanity that I like to call my own. It’s honestly a second language, and if you hang out with me for any length of time, it will become part of your vocabulary, and you’re welcome.
So, Bad Cheddar came home with the entire collection of “Fuck You” pens for me, and if that doesn’t say “I love you”, I really don’t know what does.
Seriously.
As you’ve all been witness to, I’ve had more than a few men try to change me, to clean up my act, or tone down my nonsense, or however they described their attempts to mute out the “me” in me. It didn’t matter what they called it, I wasn’t down with it, and they could, uh huh, Fuck Right Off.
Bad Cheddar has known me since I was 19. He thought I was the bees knees then, and he thinks I’m the bees knees now. With or without the potty mouth. Platinum blonde or this brunette thing I’m rocking these days. Back then with my Khia dog, these days with Puffin Girl, never once has he asked me to be anything different.
Thank Baby Jesus for that. Because we all know how that shit goes over.
So, when he brings me things like my nifty little pen collection, it reminds me that not every guy is going to hear my potty mouth and start thinking of how he could grab the Clorox and two-ply paper towels and set to work on me.
Not every guy is going to think, “if only she were a little more”, or “you’d be great if you were just a little less”.
As it turns out, for some people, I’m just enough. And damned skippy. Because if you can put up with my mouth, terrible attitude, and Puffin hogging half of your bed, hoss, you really should get a fucking tiara and sash. A parade. A park named after your ass. Something.
So, maybe there is still hope for my friends out there who have sworn it all off, thrown in the towel, or tossed the proverbial match onto the kindling. I mean, seriously, I’m the meanest broad this side of Louisiana, and someone still thinks I’m out of his league.
Little does he know, this league is not the “no crying in baseball” type. More like the “hard time in Russia for drug smuggling” type, but I’m sure he’ll realize that eventually.
That’s all for today. I’m back to my cryptid hunting. I set out firefly light jars so I would stop being such a vag about it, though.
Whatever. Even I’m afraid of Sasquatch. In the dark, anyway. Daylight? I’d wrestle his big ass too.
Love-
Q
Seems like a man of taste and distinction to me. Then again, I can blister paint and singe eyebrows at 20 paces in three languages... Were I a good bit closer geographically I'd probably buy him a beer whilst helping him plot similar loving fuckery.
I find your fuckery delightful! Erich puts up with my fuckery so I get your point