‘You don’t get to know what I do with my time’
Was driving today, listening to this song. And a not-new revelation hit me like a second car that thought the light turned green but didn’t.
I pay for this site.
I have paid for it since 2001.
I hide from this site so as not to give (insert nickname of the day) any more shit to co-opt as their own or claim somehow offends their anything-but-delicate sensibilities.
Well, in the immortal words of Cee Lo Green, “Fuck you and fuck her too.”
In any event, today I was working on a blog post in my head about a song that came on.
And I was thinking, how to I wordsmith it so that some wild bore doesn’t sic someone on me in the unlikely event that it was about the person who would be dispatched to do the siccing.
As if that person would even give a semblance of a shit that I was writing about them. Christ, they’ve never had such poetry written about them as I have produced for them. They’d be insane not to be glad that someone with a grasp of grammar thought so much of them.
Then I heard this Kenny Chesney song come on. Which, I admit, has often made me think of the one who would do the siccing.
And I remembered telling them I pay for this site. I also remembered my sister telling me if he’d just restrain that wild bore, we wouldn’t have problems.
Heh. I just heard in my head the wild bore saying this is a threat somehow. That I am dreaming up an electric fence and hoping they rub up against it.
Which, put that in your stories. It’s alllll yours. And don’t @ me.
“After all you put me through, no, you don’t get to.”