I finally got to have lunch on Wednesday with a super groovy chick I haven’t seen in a coon’s age. We settled in at our patio table to await the arrival of our vittles, and I was busy wondering how she applied her liquid eyeliner so well. (The fashionista in me never sleeps–the ol’ broad is always on the lookout for cool clothes, sexy shoes, fun make up, etc.) My eyeliner musings were interrupted by: ” I’m afraid of you. I ‘m worried that you’re reading me.” One of the things I like about my pal is that she has massive lady balls the size of the Russian tundra. She doesn’t mince words. I was so glad she voiced her concern. I am sure many others may have that same thought as well when we meet. Allow me to put your mind at ease by sharing what I told her.
Hell no, I am not readin’ your ass when we meet. GAAHHHH!! Who would want all that information? I do not want to know the color of your undies, or if you are going commando that day. I do not want to know that you are mad enough at your partner to throttle his/her fanny because the damn slob won’t pick up after themselves. I do NOT want to know how much you are coveting your neighbor’s ass–literally. If any sexual information randomly meanders into my noodle, I slam the “CANCEL” button down on my intuitive control panel ASAP and yell,”TMI! TMI!” Could you just imagine how bat sh*t crazy I would be if I had the “crystal ball” turned on at all times? Hokey smokes! Talk about information overload.