Punch Drunk

Did you know that's a real thing?  The official term is Dementia Pugilistica.  I know from my daily AWAD email that pugilism involves hitting or boxing.  So it makes sense.  It's what boxers and football players get after too many concussions.  Or me.  With too little sleep.  Hopefully, mine is acute and not chronic.

Unless you're smarter than I am (which is entirely likely), I hope you're having to Google some things.  Pugilism.  AWAD.  Chronic v acute.  The answers are in plain sight.  Hey, do I sound like a Dan Brown novel?  Google that.  Actually, I've decided to stop spoon-feeding you people.  All 29 of you.  Actually, there are only 28, because I'm not counting FF.  As much as it pains me to admit it, he probably is smarter.  But I'm probably smarter than any of his exes.  Which is not necessarily a function of IQ, unless his sample is large enough to be representative of the entire fairer sex.  And it could be.  He used to be in a band.  I definitely have a higher EQ (Empathy Quotient), but he gets a gender handicap.  I have a pretty good SQ (Systemizing Quotient) but my gender handicap offsets his.  It's very complicated.

Bottom line.  I'm pissed at him.  And I'm sure he doesn't care.  And this is where, in the old movies, the man grabs the woman and she pounds on his chest and he kisses her against her will and her desire overcomes her anger and she gives in to his seduction.  She doesn't jump up, put her hands in the air, and say, "What part of NO don't you understand, dude?"  If you look back on my previous posts, you'll see that I had the opportunity to do that recently.  In the interest of full disclosure though, I should tell you that this particular dude wasn't trying to kiss me.  And in keeping with my new philosophy, you'll have to figure this out for yourself.  Especially since the object of his agression doesn't read my blog even though she is prominently featured on a regular basis.  I tried to talk her out of a purple, sequin-studded salsa dancing dress tonight.  To no avail.  She can pull it off.  It's dark in that place.  And that's why studly young men try to kiss her and I have to be the gatekeeper.

And since she doesn't read my blog, I'll start talking trash about her.  She diagnosed my new limp as hip dysplasia (she laughed about it, even).  I hope she's not right.  She didn't care.  She had another GF to guard purses and order Mojitos at the Salsa dancing club tonight.  And this one doesn't drink, so it's no big sacrifice for her.  Payback is hell, JoJo.  Just you wait.

Ok, I've hit the wall.  I'll close.  This post is pretty perfect.  It's like a scene from a Chekhov play.  Google that.

P.S.  No more cute pictures.  No time for Google image searches.  Besides, there's some sick shit out there.