I have not been in a good mood lately, and this early afternoon exclaimed, “I am not going to be your patsy, anymore.” Whoa, big talk for a short, fat, getting older woman. In fact, maybe I should start carrying an old-fashioned Margaret Thatcher type of handbag so I can whop people over the head or in the solar plexus.
How do you spell “whop” as in “to hit” – It doesn’t look right. Maybe I should say wallop.
Oh, what the heck.
I think I will apply for a drill sergeant job so I can yell at someone up one side and down the other, give them a good dressing down and make them run five miles real fast right after having fed them spaghetti – spicy spaghetti . . . and then I will run over and perform the Peter Finch role is the post’s play . . . I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.
Perhaps I need drugs . . . I kid.
I am going to shower and then drink a Diet Cheer Wine.