Because I can’t seem to find my way out from underneath this gigantic pile of snot laden tissues and because even if I did I probably wouldn’t make much sense due to the copious amounts of NyQuil I’ve ingested I thought I would give you all an update on Her. Yeah, that Her, the “‘I’m all that and a bag of chips” Her.
I’ve been getting little glimpses into Her new life and I’m not sure I’m altogether okay with these shenanigans.
I think she’s trying to show me up, thinking that she can do South Beach Bling better than me. Pfft.
The fake tattoo I can deal with. The 80’s style ripped shirt is almost acceptable, but a hickey….really?
This is like a bad Joan Jett/Flashdance/Madonna mash up. Maybe she’s trying for a gig over at The Culture Brats.
It’s as if she just wants to torture me, she knows how I feel about nuns, after all that incident happened right out side her former home. Quite frankly I am not sure how much of a welcome she is going to get once she decides to come back.
And if any of you put this evil hex on me could you please lift it? I’m not doing so well with this being sick thing. See it’s the holidays and I need to get my shit together and I’m having a hard time doing that with a fever and tissues stuck up my nostrils feeling sorry for myself.
About two months ago I tweeted about HER. The cold, heartless, soulless bitch and how she wouldn’t even look at me much less make out with me.
When all I was doing was bringing her to a place that could patch up her shame. (Wouldn’t it be nice if we all had that kind of haven?) Guiding her to the place where she would be restored so she could reclaim her position of prominence with some dignity and grace.
But all I got in return was HER cold shoulder.
On a beautiful early fall day there was a chill in the air, the leaves still green, still on the trees. The entry door closed with the heat turned up a bit to ward of the dampness of an old building.
A couple enters into the boutique innocently looking for something to warm the cockles of their hearts.
How would they know the horror that would befall them the moment they crossed the threshold?
How could they be prepared?
And I, alone in the office waiting with bated breath for SOMETHING….ANYTHING to happen, was startled off of my lazy ass when I heard the calamity happening…the struggle, the thump, the screams of horror.
And then the aftermath.
An Elderly Man picking up the sloppy mess of HER.
The Elderly Man’s wife looking on.
Me, The Vapid Blonde, leaping up from my office chair, slow motion sprinting though the store to see what the ruckus is.
I happen upon the chaos.
The Elderly Man clinging to HER.
HER right arm dangling.
Me grabbing her out of the Elderly Man’s hands.
I tell him to let go.
LET HER GO.
I will take care of HER as I always do.
As I always will.
I whisk HER in the back.
I take off HER clothes.
I inspect HER.
I think with a heavy heart.
Beyond my realm of expertise.
I can’t help HER, but I know who can.
I make arrangements.
I take HER home.
I store the rest of HER. I save HER.
And the thanks I get?
Almost two months later is that she has no intentions of coming back.
I think she has found HER place.
She doesn’t care that HER arms, hands, legs and feet are ten miles away.
She has so much more freedom.
So much more expression.
In HER new home she changes weekly, if not daily.
Unlike life in the boutique where she might wear an outfit for a month, a really nice outfit that costs oodles of money that she got to wear for free I would like to add.
But that doesn’t seem to matter now. In HER new world she has a following.
She has friends.
May have found her mojo.
Almost two months ago I let HER go.
She hasn’t come back yet.
And these pictures are all with in the first week.
HER story is not finished and I have only begun to tell it.