Yes, that's correct, your nom de pen pal is "Errand Girl." Do not argue or parley for a new appellation as this is the finest epithet you could receive from a person such as myself considering my ardent fascination with the Middle Ages, Renaissance periods and their monarchies. See, to you, this title may seem offensive, however, since you so shunned the aforementioned names in our telephone conversations, I find this to be the most suitable. No, it really has nothing to do with your disposition or temperament, it is simply a name. I am hoping in my rambling that you understand the reasoning behind this choice? No? Well to explain here would put you at risk of exposing your given name, and therefore, if you are feeling ardent despair due to this choice please feel free to send me a TFOAD immediately.
Enough of that nonsense, especially because I know that you will argue with me via text message as soon as this bloggy blog is sent. I know you have waited quite a while for my response and here it is...
In response to your excessive viewing of "My Cat from Hell" I really don't know how to respond. My first inclination would be to check your temperature... However, since I have found myself lured into the puerile world of reality TV, I do not find it fitting to criticize. Remember when I was pregnant and could not get out of bed for fear of my "morning" sickness (which is such a misnomer by the way) getting worse? Well, my media poison of choice was "Millionaire Matchmaker." It is amazing to me that the train wreck that is this show could hold so much allure. I mean, come on, millionaires get their choice of a vast pool, or dare I say cesspool, of blonde, big boobied gold-diggers who don't have a single brain cell in their bleached, plastic surgery ridden heads, what could be better than that?!? I found myself entranced with this show for hours upon hours; it was quite astonishing to me just how many "marathons" of the same stinking show they could do! Well, I wasn't complaining at the time. As a matter of fact, I found my little heart fluttering, between dry heaves of course, as another marathon of train wrecks commenced. I even watched the re-runs, yes, the never-ending reruns where I was fully aware of the outcome. Alas, this is the power of reality, but whose reality I'm not quite sure.
My reality, however, consists of trips to Walmart, pretty much daily, where I once again enter the jungle of mullets, screaming bare-footed children, their mother's screaming at them in response in some sort of attempt at remedying the problem. Oh! And please don't forget the grandaddy of all Walmart experiences; the old, wrinkly paper-bag tanned lady, cigarette in mouth, urinating in the parking lot. Yep, right there in the parking lot for all patrons of Walmart to see. Truly, truly, this place is a freak show and I always anticipate my next trip when I will get to pass through the vines of white trash, the predators on their unnecessary motorized carts snarling as they attempt to pass by their prey (the unsuspecting cart pusher just trying to make it through another Walmart adventure). But ho! Just when you think you have made it through this dangerous exploit, you look across the vast array of check out lines, in hopes of this time seeing more than 1 singular lane open on a Sunday afternoon. However, your efforts prove futile as once again, the corporate kings of the Walmart Jungle provide one open lane in a final effort to entice their predatory patrons to face the other medium of train wreck reality... gossip magazines... I dare you to trudge the final frontier of the Wild Walmart Safari and not come out mauled, mangled, and a little muddled...
With Ardent Despair,
Nickel
P.S. Have you thought about calling Mr. Galaxy and asking him to psychoanalyze your cat who tried to end his life via asphyxiation and claustrophobia? (I'm making the assumption here that one could die from the sheer fear of being in an enclosed space, I know I probably could). I have a great poem for you by Thomas Gray if you are interested; it was written after the death of his favorite cat, hence the title "Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat." Not that your kitty died, nor would we ever want that to happen, but it explains the cause of death of this poor kitty: curiosity.
