Seeing red but technically green
“If there is any larceny in a man, golf will bring it out.” ~Paul Gallico
I went golfing. Like in the heat, with the sweat and slippery hands because I forgot my glove and now I have twin blisters. And without a calm demeanor to focus on a short game – Oh no, this was I’m going to hit the shit out of this motherfucking ball. That’s how ornery I am feeling.
My apartment looks like 15 people live there. Thwack.
One of whom happens to be very pretty and every damn person I’ve ever met in my entire live is telling me so. Thwack.
I have to get ready for the thing with the people and I’m nervous. Thwack.
I have to read like 47 galleys for Elle. And yet I’m only on page 15 of Pride and Prejudice, which I started in roughly 1985. Thwack.
I have a penchant for hyperbole. Thwack.
I’ve managed to lose all of my posts that had been written in word.
The man in the stall next to me is talking loudly about his disgusting golf shoes.
I’ve lost a friend (which is more complicated than I would like to get into).
My mother keeps starting conversations with how fantastic
I have a headache.
Some asshole almost rear ended me.
I’m pretty much convinced everyone on the planet hates me – which would imply that I mattered to everyone on the planet.
And oh my holy hell, it’s hot.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
I read that men golf not for the enjoyment but because it’s an easy way to get away from their wives and responsibilities for a few hours. Women golf, because smacking the hell out of a golf ball won’t leave them in an orange jumpsuit and/or some heinous denim outfit while manufacturing license plates.