November 17, 2011 
I think GP broke me.
Not in a wild horse kinda way, understand. He aint the Wuc Whisperer, for cryin’.
Nor, for the record, have I sunk to Bridget Jonesean lows (all by myself in earnest and epilepsy, my undies big enough to house a troupe of transient midgets).
Neverthemore, lassy. Much like little lost Ledger on his mountain of gayness, or the pink boom box which fell from my teenage hand one Bangled day in June, I’m broke back good.
Blessed be my boom box. May you rest in Iko Iko an nay.
Where inspiration once flowed, as hot and steady as Ryan Reynolds on roller skates, now here I sit. My synapses on dolt delay. My thoughts as restless as the audience of any given panto. My literary light as wayward as a Lohan firefly.
GP, my figurative Fat Bastard, has stolen my motherlovin mmmojo (to be said like Autistic Powers). He took my, baby back, baby back, baby back ribs. (He ate a baby.)
What am I to do, you ask? Well, there’s only one thing you can do when life gives you a wedgie so profound, your children are picking the cotton from their cleave for generations.
Back in the days when I gave a flying flip, I looked at every rejection as a happy avoidance of a dark future where I had gotten to know the object of my affections so well that I deeply loathed them. To the point where I smothered them with a pillow in their sleep, because they were driving me insane.
Remember, familiarity breeds contempt. Think of how many lives you’ve saved by not becoming familiar with someone enough to want to kill them every time they snore or belch or tell the same tired joke for the forty-thousandth time. This is easier to do if you’re a precognitive paranoiac like I am.
Happy thoughts.
Crackadoodies and crumbsies, Marv.
Oooh! Wouldn’t a wedgie be awfully uncomfortable for all those midgets?
Love this!