Greetings fellow patriarchy-blamers.
I regret that there is an excellent chance that I Blame The Patriarchy will be on hiatus for a couple three days while I fiddle with a recording project that urgently requires my serious attention. Ordinarily I would just keep putting the project off, the way I’ve been doing for the past month, but there has arisen the unfortunate matter of the goddam deadline. It is the worst sort of deadline, too: the kind that rapidly approacheth.
Deadlines curl my hair, I tell you whut. That’s why I became a professional spinster aunt (with a double specialty in Lounging and Lack Of Compunction) in the first place. It is a vocation to which the barbarous experience of urgency is completely foreign, except, possibly, as it pertains to getting the martini down the hatch before it loses its chill.
But occasionally the unthinkable happens and I find myself on the business end of a committment. My neck is breathed down, my back is gotten onto, my mellow is harshed. Brimful of sorrow and dismay, I can only haul my mourning weeds out of mothballs and hold a funeral service for my dear departed glorious indolence.
Poor indolence! It was so bright, so full of dreams. It was well-liked in the neighborhood and respected by its peers. So long, old friend! Here are the pennies for your eyes!
I mean, dag, with this deadline involved, for all I know I may not even get a martini today. Oh, the humanity.