Monday, February 7, 2011

God Will Get You.

I'm currently sitting in the dentist's rooms, a copy of Nobel Smile in hand, with the fear of God coursing through my veins like an A-grade drug. This fear coupled with the heaviness of heart I feel at the senseless murder of one of my oldest friend's dads does not bode well for breaking the stereotype of Morbid Monday.

Flip. Life sometimes sucks. I'm not sure why my eyes are welling up. But they are. (In my next life I would like to be a man: those that are so easily able to turn off their feelings. Ooooo! I'd like to be a player with perfect teeth: lots of sex and no dentist appointments. Radness.)

I love small towns, though. They really know how to perk a single girl up. Particularly elderly receptionists:

Elderly Receptionist Lady: I'm sorry, Mrs Liner, but you have forgotten to fill in your husband's details.

The Pant: It's Miss Liner, actually. Since I don't have a husband.

ERL: Oh. But you've filled in a dependant.

TP: Yes?

ERL: And so I need your hus - oh. Sorry. Your father's details, please.

TP: Why?

ERL: Because every girl needs a man-

TP: Like a fish needs a bicycle?

I've just been called. Time to go hang out with the satan worshipper.

I knew when I stole that toffee that cracked my tooth that my mother's sentiments were too true: God'll get you.

He's about to.

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