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.