"WHOA there, li'l pardner!" I said...which is how I tend to react to what I imagine to be criticism. "Whatchoo talkin' 'bout?"
My friend backed up a step, eyeing me warily. He knows what I'm capable of.
(No, pervert, he doesn't know THAT...but I suspect he might like to)
He hastened to explain that he meant no offense...but in his
He actually accused me of being miserly with personal information.
This came as a shock to me.
I have always considered myself to be open, honest, and aboveboard (for the most part). I frequently say, "My life is an open book!"
Apparently some of the pages are stuck together.
I also like to state, "No topic is off limits!"
Apparently that means topics in a limited range.
Well hell, seriously, who amongst you is just dying to know what my favorite color is, what's my natural hair color, what my shoe/bra size is, what's on my nightstand, who is my favorite author/group/actor/actress, and my favorite book/movie/song? Why should you care when/where I graduated high school, how well I played softball/basketball/volleyball, what awards I won in drama & debate, etc etc etc? (Pretend you're Yul Brynner when you say that last part, it's more fun that way)
If those are the things that weigh on your mind whenever (if ever) you think of me...
I worry about you. I worry about you a lot.
...on another note...
I live in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I woke up and found myself plopped right into the middle of "The Birds".
For crap's sake.
The tweeting, trilling, warbling, chattering, singing, and cawing was drowning out my alarm clock...which is set to super ultimate maximum loud.
I looked outside...and I swear there had to be 3,000 or so birds in the trees that surround my house.
And they were watching me.
I could feel their beady little bird eyes on me...making my flesh crawl.
Even my doggies were hiding.
Now I'm off to go purchase some heavy-duty bullet-proof goggles and full-body armour.
And maybe a shotgun.