Am v. ashamed of self. Spent solid two-hours on couch at Js house absorbed in horrible, date-a-thon reality television show. Unbelievable. While most of the world has to be satisfied with the Combo Plate, star of said date-a-thon was gorging self on Sexual Smorgasbord. The nerve! Is like eating sirloin in front of starving children in some Sub-Saharan, third-world nation. (Sub-Saharan, of course, because any further North and cows take on a sort of revered state and eating said sirloin would cause uprising of another kind.) Worst part of entire evening was finding that did not feel nearly as indignant as should have, according proper pseudo-feminist fashion. Instead found self asking,
Self?
Inner Goddess. I believe we established the whole preferential nomenclature thing already.
Indeed. My apologies. Inner Goddess, he's pretty charming, isn't he?
Yes. He is. Best not to admit it though. He's going to trounce some girl's poor little heart in about 10 seconds.
Oh, she knew what she was getting into. She'll be ok.
Just like you did? And how you were so ok?
I beg your pardon?
With J, you tart. You knew what you were getting into. How ok were you? How ok ARE you?
Ouch. Fine, but I think... oh my God, he just took that poor girl's heart and mangled it!
See. The Bastard. That's what the show should really be called.
I still think he's charming.
You would.
Cynic.
Sucker.
Bitch.
Aha! Deal with that! Amazing, the sense of gratification that comes from winning argument with self. Inner Goddess apparently not a morning person nor a fan of reality television. Will have to seriously consider upgrading to new model. If can do so with cell phone, can certainly do so with Inner Goddess. Or, so one would hope.