while the PSE was away at the Drug Study a few weeks ago, i found the time to get in touch with old friends that i hadn't spoken with for a while.

my friend Doughnuts sent me an e-vite [which is an invitation via e-mail, for those of you who don't know. and why would you?] to attend his dog Rachel's tenth birthday party.
as much as i would like to fly halfway across the country to celebrate a Boston Terrier's birthday, i had to send my regrets.

i sent a text message to my friend Mice to thank him for recommending i watch a show on HBO called The Night Of.
Mice works at HBO and said it was a good show to watch back when we last spoke in August.
i finally got around to heeding his advice and i wanted to thank him because, yeah, it was a good show.
[i don't know when i'll get around to posting a review. we're running months and months behind on thoes.]
anyways, Mice and i got to talking a bit about his girlfriend who has taken to frogmarching him on weekend nature walks.
Mice is not the kind of person who enjoys being outdoors.
there is nothing to gamble on in nature.
i told Mice that if his girlfriend can force him to spend his weekends going on nature hikes with her, it is only fair that he can force her to do shit he wants to do every other weekend.
after a few weekends of them pissing on each other, they can agree to pursue their peculiar interests on their own time and agree to spend their weekends watching TV on the sofa like normal couples do.
i am here to solve problems.

my old high school sweetheart Wombat had her thirty-fourth birthday on April 20th.
her birthday is one of the only ones i can remember, on account of Hitler.
actually it turns out Wombat's birthday is on the 19th, but, shit, texting her one day late is still pretty impressive considering our connection effectively terminated over sixteen years ago.
our text-message catch-up didn't last too long, however, because Wombat had to go do something else.
she got back to me the following day, but i didn't respond.
your chit-chat window has expired, Wombat. i only have so much to give.
maybe next year, when i remember your birthday one day late again.
on account of Hitler.


while i took advantage of the PSE's time away from me in the Dallas Drug Study talking to my friends, the PSE spent a fair amount of her time keeping up with her own correspondences.
unfortunately for the PSE, she only has one friend to keep up with, the Gibbler.
fortunately for the PSE, the Gibbler doesn't have anything else going on with her life then to chit-chat all day long on the FaceBook Messenger.

The Gibbler:
The Gibbler and the PSE spent a fair amount of time playing a truth-telling game where they would ask each other questions.
one of the problems the Gibbler has [and the Gibbler has so many problems] is that she is a shite conservationist so the PSE has to devise little games like this to wrest conversation from the Gibbler's uninteresting clutches.
so the PSE would ask the Gibbler questions like “what do you think about when you masturbate?” and “what do you dislike most about your child?”
the answer is “going down on girls” and “he's a dishonest little shit,” respectively.
one of the things that has really born out over the course of their conversation is just how bisexual-bordering-on-Lesbian the Gibbler is.

one time the PSE asked the Gibbler to rank herself on an attractiveness scale of one to ten.
the Gibbler babbled for a while before finally spitting out a complimentary-but-not-braggy number.
the Gibbler then replied by asking the PSE to rank her on a scale of one to ten.
and because they were playing a truth-telling game, not a bullshitting game or an ego-sparing game, the PSE gave her a 3.5.
which i thought was a bit generous on the PSE's part.
on her best days the Gibbler looks like Darlene from Roseanne, only not fifteen-year-old-Darlene-could-possiably-be-attractive-in-a-tomboy-wearing-flanel kind of way, i mean Darlene today, forty years old and beat up by the world.

the PSE listed several things that add up to the Gibbler's less-then-respectable score.
her thin lips, thin hair, recessed chin and other evidence of overall poor breeding.
her stretch-marked, saggy tits like windsocks, her humpback, her chest full of moles and other creepy abnormalities.
perhaps most damning, however, is what passes for the Gibbler's sense of style.
you can't blame a girl for being several generations of White trash.
poor genes are poor genes.
you can take off significant demerits for the way somebody chooses to present themselves to the world and the Gibbler makes all the wrong choices.
the Gibbler is a cosmetologist, so that should tell you enough about her look.
the 'i-used-to-be-into-punk-rock-but-now-i'm-a-single-mom' look.
the 'my-boyfriend-is-a-rockabilly-which-really-means-he-couldn't-pass-high-school' look.
the 'i-pretend-to-be-into-pin-up-girls-but-really-i'm-just-overweight-with-bad-tattoos-and-a-drug-problem' look.
the PSE really had to sink the Gibbler's ship on that shit.
also, the Gibbler is a humorless and dull woman, one of the least-interesting people i've ever met, but, this wasn't a personality contest, it was about looks only, so, okay 3.5/10 is fair enough.

next the PSE asked the Gibbler to rate her on an attractiveness scale of one to ten.
the Gibbler gave the PSE a 2.5/10.
when the PSE asked the Gibbler what was so wrong with her that she earned a 2.5/10 the arrogant goblin listed the following:
1) the PSE doesn't wear any makeup
2) the PSE doesn't dress 'sexy'
3) the PSE doesn't have any “childbearing stretchmarks” on her belly
that's what the PSE loses points for.
in any other world, the PSE gains points for the aforementioned, but to the Gibbler, apparently, they are detractions.
the time difference between Dallas where the PSE was and Reno where the Gibbler was is only two hours. there is no way it could be Opposite Day in Reno and the PSE not know about it in Dallas.
so, i can only conclude that the Gibbler was feeling stung by the PSE's assessment and decided to hit back with pettiness.

what the fuck, Gibbler, you're not even pretending to be objective.
people in the 2.5 range are, like, physically deformed.
the PSE is a low-7 on a bad day, Gibbler, and you know that.
calling the PSE a 2.5 is just the Gibbler's way of letting the PSE know that she's not even good at being high-handed.
if the Gibbler really wanted to sting the PSE she would have said something to the effect of, “oh, you're really pretty.
you remind me of this tattooed hot momma i went to beauty school with.
she's got a son who's about to graduate high school and three girls in middle school.
despite being busy all the time with her kids and N.A., she still found the time to come in third place at the Miss Reno Rockabilly Pinup Contest they had at the Dairy Queen last year.”
something like that. that's how you shit on people, Gibbler.
but like i said, the Gibbler is profoundly dull.

//[ab irato ad astra]

September 2017

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