My sulking inner fifteen-year-old has deigned to come out of her room in my brain a lot more lately. I am not sure if it is that she's looking for more black dye to further blackify her already all-black wardrobe or if she is looking for a raise in her allowance to offset the costs of her newfound, Morrissey-inspired smoking habit, but there she is, surveying all that she sees with a thinly veiled expression of disdain.
I am quite disappointed with my fifteen-year-old self, because her vocabulary could use some work. I really thought that with all Dostoyevsky and Maharishi Mahesh Yogi she read back in 1987 that she would have a little more to offer than: "Asshole much?" (in response to a less than kind statement made by one of my friends); "Gay much?" (in response to the Palinode's displayed knowledge of show tunes); "Jealous much?" (in response to someone's disapproval of the amount of cleavage I was sporting); and "Think much?" (in response to most statements made by most people).
I think I am going to send her back to upgrade her high school English classes. And challenge her to discontinue the use of the moon as a poetic device. And maybe suggest a regular dose of some kind of dopamine-reuptake blocking compound.
What brings this up is that one of my cats fell off a chair yesterday, and when I picked him up, I said "Loser much?" Then, while I was in mid love-snorgle with his belly fluff, I thought to myself, "Pathetic much?", which threw me into a depressive spiral that I concluded with the statement "Crazy much?"
It gets worse. I have been somewhat constipated of late - (not that you have the desire to know this, but I have to tell you in order to reach the end of this story) - and yesterday marked an extremely impressive end to that niggling issue. I was just pulling some toilet paper off the roll when I heard myself say "Fibre much?" OUT LOUD.
It strikes me as particularly unnecessary to use a mocking tone in response to my own bowel movements.