What’s ‘a madda, baby?

Posted: July 14, 2011 in transliteration
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I want to talk to you like the waiter in Lady and the Tramp while we play Nintendo games, but then I find myself thrown off by the additional drawl. You ask me the same thing every time. What makes you think I’ll tell you this time?

The receptionist makes fun of me. I think she makes fun of me. She repeats what I say, and I can’t tell if she’s mocking the peculiar word usage I’ve picked up from reading literature rather than text messages…or if the accents aren’t mingling properly. Is she talking with a funny lilt or just repeating funny words the way we say them here?

Did I say something?

I think I’m falling in love with the teller at my credit union. She has the most beautiful rubber bands holding her jaw in proper alignment, but she’s not afraid to smile. She’s fucking gorgeous.

You tell me you don’t get it. I’m not hot. I’m not nice. I’m not outgoing. I don’t even talk to most of them. You really don’t get it…but that’s not to say that I do. Who cares? Drink your caffeinated sugar, take your cut, and shut the fuck up.

A week in, I got cornered. I got asked. I laughed. I honestly don’t give a shit why you invited me in. I don’t care who you fuck, what you smoke, or when you have to wake up in the morning. Leave me alone, and I’m as close to happy as I’m going to get with this arrangement. You go right ahead and cook meth, but don’t ask me a lot of questions and don’t touch my shit.

The math is starting to make sense.

Follow the rules. Follow the rules. Follow the rules.

7:34 on a Monday morning. 7:34.
It’s 3:17 on a Thursday now.

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