Your voice, grating on my every nerve.
As you talk. And talk. And talk.
About your life, your coworkers, your home
You talk at your companion, who laughs and nods appropriately
On and on you go, from Park Street to Alewife
Your voice, stabbing at my brain with every variation in intonation
I long to experience something far less painful
Like an episiotomy
« Dolls of Dementia | Main | Commuterrant hits the Boston Globe »
May 13, 2005
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Man, if that aint wit dipped in a big ol' vat o' genius, then I DON'T KNOW WHAT, that's what. A particularly great post, as I have been stabbed a time or two by my fellow human's voice droning about piffle.
Posted by: Emily | May 14, 2005 at 02:29 PM
Hee hee. Thanks, Emily. I love "piffle."
Posted by: Ellen | May 15, 2005 at 09:00 AM
Ouch!!!
Posted by: Paul | May 27, 2005 at 09:10 AM