So. I’ve been reading the books of Ellen and Portia, simultaneously.
And where Seriously…’ is a joke flavoured confit with smooth self-help scent, Unbearable Lightness resides deep down the rabbit hole, quenching and insight full. One expanding, the other contracting, together they somehow mirror the rhythm of breathing. Curious.
Then, after feasting on such philosophy, I watched A Night At The Roxbury.
‘Cause that’s how I roll.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch: The Beast made her first appearance yester. Like T-Rex straining into my quiet cave on the sniff of a hunt, she swiped the shadows where I stood, my back glued to a rueful rock wall. Then, before I could counter, she fired coercion ‘n’ calumny at me in quick succession, the last of which lodged itself in my perplex.
Ordinarily I reserve hatred for such halloumi as M.Night Shyamalan and Smith (à la Kevin), but. With the uncanny ability to leave me tangled long after torpedo, Beast makes the cut.
Still. Rather than stew in soliloquy, I contemplate. Maybe I should ask my boss to find another boob to bestow Le Bête upon? Sure, my primary instinct is to bend over and take it up the tailpipe, but it aint in my job description (it’s merely inferred). So why not catapult the caustic cat into the lap of a credulous counterpart before she soils my see-sawing psyche?
It’s so crazy, it just. might. work.
Or, asking my boss thus is a catastrophic CLM (career limiting move) and I’ll end dressed in traits of the tiresome and entitled for causing ripples in once calm waters …