Les mots ovaires

Hello again, followers of the blogosphere. I realize it's a bit obnoxious to be blogging twice in one day, but seems how my other was completely meaningless I figure it's excusable. It's also too late for me to be doing anything else....

Because. Fine. Ok. Whatever.

These are ovary words.
If you use them, you are classified as a woman. Especially when you use them in conjunction. As in, "How is your cat today? Why is he feeling that way?"

"Whatever. Okay. Fine. Because."

This is an example of when an ovaried person answers a non-ovary question. Ovaried wasn't actually a word until now, by the way. I do shit like that. Make up words. I'm outta control.

Also, that is just fucking beautiful. Really. Fucking defucking vanfucking beautiful. Not you. Not that. No, you don't know what I'm talking about. But you sure made it seem like you wanted to. Or something. Whatever. Okay. Fine. Because.

(I have ovaries and I'm not afraid to use them.)

Also, I love my best friend. She is special and she drinks tea and appreciates the foam on top of the tea and doesn't judge when I use my fingers to scoop the rest out of the bottom even though it is highly unhygienic and probably in proper society would be frowned upon. But who gives a shit, because we are fucking beautiful. Yeah. I did go there.
Boys? You are not fucking beautiful. Except the ones in Whistler? I think. Man-o-man, if whatsisface reads this blog, he is going to be singing in the fucking rain with happiness right now. And if not, well then, well, fine. Okay. Whatever. Because.

Also, you missed your fucking queue. And now I have to perform a monologue where they should have been dialogue. The lights broke and the fell on the chair that you were supposed to throw across the stage when you came in the door but you didn't come in the door, did you, no, you were off in the wings, waiting in the wings, always you are waiting in the fucking wings, and now the whole scene is ruined, in fact maybe the play is over, the audience has gone home, they didn't stand up, they didn't clap, they just went, and I'm stuck here with the single wilted rose that was thrown haphazardly by the screaming toddler in the second row and the lines I don't recall and the stage makeup melting off my face.
Get out of the wings, or go home.

That's quite enough of that.

Brought to you by (your friendly neighbourhood hippocampudoctorologist) and Allison Carter, who doesn't write blogs anymore and who therefore had a lot of repressed blogangst, which is also a word, and who is going to start up with that shit soon.