and speaking of inappropriate public transit conversations, it is more than likely, statistically speaking and all, that i have, at one point or another, initiated random contact with less-than-willing participants. for that, i heartily apologize. there were, granted, times in my life where i was in dire need of human contact. those times, i am happy to announce, are over. the bubbling spring of conversation that began at a baseball game in new york city in the summer of my eleventh year is slowly drying up.
i hope, in ten years or less, to become so unbecomingly uncommunicative as to alienate all of my friends and family members. mr. monkey will either join me in this endeavour, or will be quietly decomposing in a shallow grave in an undisclosed location in the pacific northwest (because it's pretty and the soil is soft). just kidding. likely he'll snap first, despite his saintly qualities. and i really will not blame the man. i mean, enough is enough.
but of course, those of you who know me, have every right to snicker into your freshly starched sleeves. who am i kidding? the art of Shut The Fuck Up is ever an elusive dream, shimmering like a mirage of gleaming topless vixens and fruit laden tables to some desiccated horny soul crawling through the unforgiving sands of the sahara.
over and out on yet another pointless blathering of one who really ought to be in bed, getting her beauty rest in preparation for a "working interview" on the morrow. hopefully, as i drive the mighty highway to my destination, i stay on the correct side of the meridian. if not, well, it'll save mr. monkey the digging.