May 23, 2006

I refuse to *#@%

In an attempt to keep internet me relatively clean, I have refrained from, uh, speaking as I normally would. (Sorry Mom & Dad, I don't usually say "freaking"). But sometimes, situations and frustrations just call for a good. . .ahem. The whole ampersand-pound sign-other bizarre symbols swearing business is entirely too lame.

But I've found a solution. I am going to allow "feck" into my acceptable vocabulary. I mean, if priests can say it. . .Well, messed up, exiled, alcoholic Father Ted priests. . .

However, that's more like me than regular priests, I think everyone would agree.

And so:
My goddamn blister is fecking infected, and I'm wearing clunky shoes for the fourth day in a row, and I'm a fecking incompetent stepmother because I make them cry when I behave perfectly so I really don't know what the feck to do, and I think I'm getting arthritis at age 24 which is fecking pathetic, and I really have to stop listening to fecking Iron & Wine because they're really not helping the weepy-me situation.

Weary Memory, Iron & Wine

Mrs. Doyle: What would ye say to a cup o' tea?
Father Jack: Feck off, cup!
(Father Ted)

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Dear Nice Cordelia Lady,

I think you're a bitchin' step-mom. Definitely the hottest stepmom I know, plus one of the wisest.
Turn off the Iron & Wine, yes. No Cat Power, either. How about some nice Jack Johnson? Or--the cure-all to end any type of blues--Sam the Sham & the Pharoahs?

Good luck with that fecking ooze.