No no, meme

You all know Fence, right? Our Fence? Well, she has browbeaten me into doing a meme, and rather than run for cover, or fall to my knees at her feet begging for mercy, I’ve decided to do something inbetween. A subversive act, but nobody narc on me, please.

I really shouldn’t tell you what I am thinking about, because – as always – it involves sex in some way. I have never talked about sex with you, never ever, and I am not going to start now. And if you believe that, then you are obviously a newcomer to my blog. You may be asking yourself, “Self? Does she mean she never thinks about sex, or does she mean she never talks about it on her blog?” Instead of asking yourself, you should have asked me. Somebody asked me earlier, and I was happy to tell them. I said, “One plus one, sweetheart. Do the math.” I want to take that back now because what I wish I’d said instead was, “Gabriel Byrne.” Because that pretty much sums it ALL up.

I hear that Gabriel Byrne likes to design socks, but now that I’ve said it, I wonder if you’re all going to think I spend hours on the internet perusing sites about him, fansites created by rabid stalker loserly types. I am emphatically not one of those. I only get my information firsthand. The thing I regret the most however, is that last Sunday when I had him tackled to the sidewalk with my hand up his leg – to check if the sock was cotton, or a cotton blend, of course – I didn’t write my phone number on his knee. He was yelling something, and I am sure it was for my number. It doesn’t have 911 in it anywhere, though. Why in the world would he think that? He must have been drunk.

Like Fence, I dance only when I’m drunk. haha! That is a total lie. I sing only when I’m drunk. haha! That is a lie, too, because they generally frown on getting drunk in church – unless you are Episcopalian – and that’s where I did most of my singing. Well, and dancing, too. I will cry if any Episcopalians send me death threats for saying what I just did. I have only been to your church once, I swear, so how would I know what your policies on debauchery are? I am not always sane, so please cut me some slack.

I make with my hands like I am deaf Russian interpreter. Now please reread that last sentence with a bad, fake Russian accent, which is how I meant to write it. Of course, if you truly were a deaf Russian interpreter, I doubt you would mind one whit about the accent. Does anybody know why we say “whit”? I confuse some words with other words, and forget most words altogether. I need an interpreter myself, but that’s news to no one. Hey, gotta go - the phone’s ringing. It must be Mr Byrne, and finally we’ll be able to discuss those socks I ordered. If he threatens me with death for writing on my blog that he was drunk, I guess I’ll have to buckle and order two pairs.