I’m not sure if I’m living wisely.

I revealed to M. my ultimate plan for West Coast domestication — I hit 300 pounds, sit around the house and adopt that shrewish tone I always seem to hear out and about. You know, “Hoooney, you’re not leaving the house looking that way are you?”

I swear to God, last time I was at the airport with him, we were next to a couple where the frowny faced (i.e. sourpussed, probably everywhere she had a puss) chick kept at the poor guy, ending with something like, “Well, fine! If this is the wrong line, then I guess you’re just going to have to stand there and be wrong. And, then you’ll get to stand in another line. But just stay where you are.”

Maybe I’m just no good at being a chick, but whenever I adopt a tone best left for very small children and dumb animals, I fully expect to see some jaw clenching, if not fist clenching. Experentially, I’d say most guys aren’t real cool with commands like “Sit!” and “Stay.”

(I should say that at the current time, every time I hear a woman in public shrewing it up and just sounding like a stone-cold, drag of a cunt, I want to trade my ovaries in right then and there and throw my NOW card on top of them. Of course, all that’ll be changing when I join their ranks.)

Everything will change when I make it to the Golden West. Shrew all the way, baby. B I T C H. Like every man’s nightmare. This pussy has teeth, all that man-eating shit.

Or at least that’s what I’m telling M.

I figure that way when we’re living together, and I’m my usual self I will seem twice as good and cool. Like I said, may be not what you would call “wise.” But, a chick’s got to have a plan.