Oh my god, I am never doing this NaBloPoMo thing EVER AGAIN. All the funny has dripped out of my brain. Every day I fling myself on my imaginary fainting couch and wail to Lars, "Whither the funny, my love? Whither the FUNNY?!?!?!"
Oh! You don't know who Lars is, do you? Lars is my imaginary manservant. He does all my imaginary housework, but even HE doesn't take out the garbage. Something about his manicure. That Lars. I love him, I really do, but I pay him enough imaginary money to take out the damn garbage. Who else is going to finance his plentiful collection of gold lame hotpants, I ask of you? No one, that's who.
Sigh. It's so hard to find good help these days.
Miss Banshee: Yes, my bootilicious pal?
Lars: You are outing yourzelf. About zee gahrbage ting.
Miss Banshee: I…don't know what you're talking about.
Lars: Confession vill do you gud. Go ahead and tell zee nice peeple.
Sigh. Okay. I'm totally ruining my feminist cred right now, but here goes. I bitch about imaginary manservants because I secretly have a huge grudge about taking out the garbage. Feminists? Cover your eyes. Here goes.
Taking out the garbage is a man's job. So says me.
I have no man in my life.
Therefore I have to take out my own stupid garbage.
Which reminds me that I am single.
And it is also gross.
So there you have it. My confession. Are you happy, Lars?
Lars: Vat, dahlink? I stopped paying attenzhion ven you stop talking about me. Come look at Lars's pores. Do zhey look beeg to you?
Sigh. Anyone want a slightly used imaginary manservant? I'll throw in the hotpants for free.