360 Degrees of Suppuration

Okay, listen. This is something — a peeve, if you will (or even if you won’t) — I’ve been sitting on way too long, like some sort of obsessive hen intent on warming her eggs till what hatches isn’t a wet grayish chick that quickly morphs into a fluffy yellow one but, instead, a fresh ‘n’ fluffy Western omelet. The time has come for me to just let it out into the world, so I can finally free myself of its unmanageable, unwieldy burden and get on with my life. By releasing this one item into the wild, which may or may not include the blue (or periwinkle?) yonder, I am thus making the space it occupied available for another peeve, this one perhaps even bigger and better and petter.
So what is it, you ask? What is this mysterious irk that gnaws on my tolerance like a particularly persistent and ravenous termite? That makes me want to poke several holes into an offender’s flesh like those poked into a baked potato pre-baking?
This: “She’s nothing like what she used to be. She stopped eating scrambled Fluff for breakfast, knocked it off with the incessant scrapbooking, and took up archery! She lost 45 pounds, got herself a boyfriend, and won a tournament! She’s the complete opposite! She did a 360!
Please note that I emphasized the peeve part of the example, just so you will not think I have a problem with archery.
See, if you “do a 360”, that indicates that you have come full circle. You are back at what is commonly known as Square One. If you have experienced change that makes you the complete opposite of what you were before, you “do a 180”. Otherwise, sticking with “360”, you are just telling the world, with gleeful self congratulations, that you are right back where you started: fat, unpopular, and without a trophy for your mantle.

What does this have to do with “suppuration”? Absolutely nothing. I wanted a “play” on the good ol’ “six degrees” thing, but, failing to come up with one raucously hilarious enough, decided to just make you run for your dictionary instead. Sexy word, isn’t it?

0 thoughts on “360 Degrees of Suppuration

  1. **sigh**

    I have to confess: I always knew I was a huge dweeb-geek-dork-nerd-nimrod, but now I find myself guilty of at least three sins against the Coolness of Jodi.

    • I – gulp – crochet (I can’t knit – I can only handle one blunt implement at a time rather than two sharp ones). I have even been guilty of crocheting “kooky hats,” though that was mainly for charity – along with “kooky” scarves.
    • I have breasts – even “boobs.” I must admit, though, I love playing the word “tit” or “tits” in Scrabulous and I used to know all the words to “Otto Tit-Sling.” Maybe the prevalence of “boobs” is a Western United States things.
    • I love my coffee, but I love tea, too. Chai with soy is especially nice. Or Oolong with Chinese food.
    • And that last is where I am the worst offender. I have chunky, sensible shoes. Lots of them. I have “science” shoes and European “walking” shoes and “Earth” shoes and I still own two pairs of Doc Martens (black Mary Janes and black boots). I do not, however, wear them with character socks (I own ONE pair of green socks with fuzzy monkeys on them which I only wear when I want to appall people or charm small children). I have tried to put some “pretty” and “cute” shoes into the mix (pointed toes, kitten heels, etc.), but I only own one pair of REAL heels – three inches, I believe? (platforms and artisan wedges are a different matter – they distribute the weight more comfortably).

      Your friends, while not bimbos, I presume don’t see the sense in sensible shoes because they are probably all petites fleurs like you. I am, even though I weigh quite a bit less than a few years ago, a substantial Amazon woman (and always will be no matter what my weight) with wide feet and, I kid you not, arthritis. Sensible shoes make SENSE for me.

    You know, however, that I can, in a circumstance wherein I shan’t offend the sensibilities of a perfectly nice person to whom it would be appalling, spit the word “cunt” out like the best of the proverbial sailors. And you KNOW I probably know more synonyms for the vagina than anyone with whom you are acquainted. Does this redeem me at all?

    I am not empowered by my sisterhood either.

    Forgive me, oh Jodi, and do not abandon all acknowledgment of me.

  2. Actually, the three of you are exempt from all of this.
    ALSO, by “sensible shoes” I mean the kind that don’t have the good sense to be CUTE while being comfortable. Sensible shoes are worn by librarians who DON’T eventually, at some point, let down their hair (literally and figuratively). I have low-heel and flat sandals and boots I call my “dyke boots”. But I don’t consider any of these “sensible”.
    Love to my sisterhood.

  3. Thank God I’m not a woman. I have to admit, I love my chai.
    And I’m knitting a scarf.
    But I do spit out “cunt” like coffee that’s been left on the burner too long.

  4. Jeffrey, LOL! For real! It’s a good thing I didn’t have Diet Coke (Cock?) in my mouth, because it would’ve come (!) out my nose.
    I trust you have fabulous taste in footwear, so I will forgive you the chai and the knitting.

  5. First, I know of no sailor who would spit out cunt. They, like my favoritist of females, swallow what they eat.
    Second, no shoes are sensible. we should all go sans footwear and let the grass eek up betwixt our colle tively gnarled little piggies, even as we go to the market for roast beef.
    Third, women who feel a sense of empoerment are hawt. Way sexier than those who follow one step behind and one step to the left in sensible shackles.
    Fourth, welcome back, Kate. Missed you and you’re ability to spit like a sailor. đŸ˜‰

  6. Oh, GOD, (what does that sound like when typed?) – thanks for the welcome back, Ds, (I’m all verkelmpt now – talk amongst yourself – I’d give you a subject, but – wait…CUNT), I am SOOOOO tempted to go to the “but I swallow” if we were to talk about what I might do to a sailor in the right circumstance. But shall not speak of such things. Nope.

    Besides, I am a nun. A fucking, frustrated nun.

    More importantly, thank you Dear Jodi for not abandoning me because of my obvious and self-affirmed dweebishosity. Would you like a hat?

    It’d be KOOKY.

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