You know what I hate? Explaining myself.
For some reason, I've been doing it a lot.
Example: I met a girl with some really funky braces in her mouth.
So I said to her,"Is that a swatchell?"
And everyone would give me a blank stare.
Fucking blank stares, man.
And I started and stuttered an explanation. I fucking hate that.
A swatchell is a device used by Punch and Judy professors - the puppeteers are called professors - to do Mr Punch's voice, a shrill, freaky tone. A swatchell is made of tin and cotton and tapes and it is inserted into the mouth.
God, I fucking hate explaining that.
And yet, that is what I do.
A dear friend commented recently that I sound angry.
I was like, "Wha?"
Said that I was curt and all.
Man. I hate explaining myself.
I suffer from shortness of breath, because of all the smoking and coughing. So excuse me if I don't sing any arias, unless it comes out of my ass or something.
Growing up, it was hard for me to play with kids my age. I mean, they say they want to play Silverhawks, so I start explaining to them about the formation on their space jet and the different types of Silverhawks - the special green and orange ones and Stargazer - and before you know it, they start playing Thundercats.
I hate explaining myself.
Oops. My friend arrived. Gotta go.