Stroke

I really need to write something amazing. I mean, really, truly, downright fucking BRILLIANT! In order to accomplish this feat, I am going to pull out ALL the stops, utilizing every cliche, catch-phrase, and politically incorrect blasphemy that mankind has ever recorded, be it on parchment, papyrus, granite, bond, or bubble gum wrapper.

OK, here goes..........

It was a dark and stormy night, with scattered thunderstorms, dainty droplets of H2O cascading through an atmosphere so butch you could have cut it with a dull five bladed razor, since it seems that four blades are not enough anymore to trim the hedges on the manly faces of American Manly Men. At least I am ASSUMING that men who require that many blades in their shavers are manly, because I can assure you that if THAT many blades were to bite into the wrong place, someone of a "dainty" persuasion would be screaming like a girl, blood being flung everywhere, making life inconvenient for some illegal alien cleaning girl trying to earn enough money to get her sisters over the border to join in the scramble for the American dream....you know, the one that includes variable interest rate mortgages that sneak up and bite you in the ass JUST when you thought you had life sussed, just when you thought that the next credit card you maxed out would be your last, knowing deep down inside that it wasn't going to be, because they OWN you, my friend, lock stock and fucking barrel.

Angelic' read over that incredibly long sentence again, just to make sure she hadn't missed anything of great importance, because you know how those Americans love to hide everything in Seinfieldian irony, just to piss you off because, frankly, you just don't get it, and speaking of frank, why is it that if you speak truthfully of something, you invoke the name of frank, and who the fuck IS frank, anyway?

Her head snapped back, so shocked was she to have been tricked into a thought pattern so lengthly and drawn out that it rivaled the bullshit that she was attempting to grasp, if only for lack of anything more productive to do with her life at this given moment. Yes, she fully realized that putting down the 45 caliber automatic pistol that filled her smallish hand was a far, far better thing she could have done then randomly call up this idiot's blog and zone out, but she had a good reason for having this big, huge hunk of deadly iron in her delicate hand, that good reason being the complete and utter annihilation of her boyfriend when he came home from fucking around on her with her best friend, an affair she had only this morning discovered by breaking into his MySpace Page and reading all the torrid love letters they had exchanged, only unbeknownst to her, love letters that were only part of a play that he was rehearsing for, the said true friend only innocently helping a good friend out by playing the part, a part that was now threatening to tear apart the lives of three otherwise very close friends.

So, as this story that has taken on a life of it's own consumes me and threatens to take same said life on the road and earn outlandish royalties after being highlighted by Opra Winfrey, I will stop now, suddenly, abruptly, leaving metaphorical skid marks across the metaphorical page of this electronic construct, a place that exists in two places at once, in my mind, and in yours, because you dared to enter here and succumb to this arrangement of fonts gathered together upon this plane of existence that is highly questionable once it is erased, which it will be as soon as you seek the sweet solace of slumber and forget you ever read it.