On first sight, I read recogitate as regurgitate and winced. There’s something truly off-putting about the word regurgitate, don’t you think? But, come to find out, there’s something equally off-putting about the word recogitate. The meanings are frightfully similar. Regurgitate = to spit something out that was partially digested. Recogitate = to think over again. In … Continue reading : to recogitate :
Tag: stress
: dumb coping strategies :
Like every person in the world, I’m bored stiff. You can only pick dog hair off your socks for so long, you know. The weather doesn’t even try to help. This early in springtime it’s a crapshoot — one day it’s warm and sunny, the next few are cold and bleak and ferociously windy. Oh, … Continue reading : dumb coping strategies :
: remain calm :
A good laugh is what we need about now, right? I know I do, I’m anxious and fretful and tense. The election is Tuesday, you know, and the consequences couldn’t be bigger. They’re yuge. Bigly yuge, possibly catastrophic. All we can do is cast our ballots, hope for the best, and treat ourselves to a … Continue reading : remain calm :
: surviving a weaponized Liberace :
The constant drama and bomb-throwing; the tastelessness and ostentation; the hair-proud flamboyance; the glittery distractions. It’s too much stress for me. So I’m in a self-imposed exile from the Internet and television and DJT. I’m simply worn out. The fuming over foolishness I can’t stop and can’t possibly fathom is too exhausting. If the last … Continue reading : surviving a weaponized Liberace :
: dear goggle-eyed twits :
Stop staring at me. I wasn’t in a bar fight. I wasn’t mugged or Maced. I didn’t run into a door. I woke up this way -- with a fat, red, swollen eye. No, I don’t know why. Yes, it is weird and I’d rather not discuss my unsightly blotch with strangers, so look away and … Continue reading : dear goggle-eyed twits :
: wings :
Okay, we’re all familiar with the old chestnut, ‘every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings,’ from It’s A Wonderful Life. Well, I’m no angel, but ding, ding, ding, I got wings. Mine aren’t the feathery, wispy things that flap. Mine came in the form of a black, four-door sedan with just under … Continue reading : wings :
the whirly girl 