...and don't panic! The Know brings you advice during housing
A true friend is always there for you, especially when you're drunk.
Miss Quit regresses to her childhood this week as the prospect of beginning the "University of Life" looms.
Alright, first things first, I have a confession to make. What better way to start the term? A bit of self-flagellation. Lovely. Anyway, if you couldn’t tell from that intro, I have been a bit of a nightmare to live with recently. Not just to live with actually, but to know in general. Blame it on stress or lack of sleep or whatever, but for some reason, I’ve been a complete biatch.
Another confession - I was going to spend the next few paragraphs recalling a somewhat amusing, half-exaggerated anecdote about trying to abstain from making a fool of myself, as I usually do, but instead I’ve decided to focus on something that actually matters for a change: not being a biatch.
Having already failed miserably in practice, I thought I’d have a crack at the layman theory side of things. ‘Cause that’s just what we are all in need of right now, more inane commentary. Still, this is my small piece of web space to do with as I see fit, so with all due respect, if you don’t like it, I suggest you stop reading now. Ok, I apologise, that was uncalled for. See now I’m transferring my Bitchitis technologically to you. Man, do I have issues.
Still, it could be worse I guess, could be spreading Swine Flu instead of scowls and terse words. Yes, I went there.
Before this gets way out of hand and I get reported to the mental health police, (or whoever deals with silly bints like me who run their mouths off and offend people who only read opinion pieces to comment on everything they find abhorrent about opinion pieces and the people who write them in their own free time) I’m going to dab some rescue remedy on my tongue and breathe deeply to the count of ten.
Ah, that’s better. Right, what was I saying? Oh yeah, Bitchitis. I refer to it as a condition, because it is one, with symptoms and everything. Scientists are working on a cure but in the meantime the safest course of action is to be vigilant and watch out for SOBs: Signs of Bitchitis. As a relapsing sufferer myself, I feel fully qualified to inform one and all on this horrible disease that affects millions worldwide. Just call me Dr. Quit.
(Damn, I could have made a groan-worthy pun there by combining the medical theme and issue of bitchiness at hand, crossing ‘doctor’ with ‘butcher’ and ‘bitch’, to create a...yeah, I know, good thing I didn’t. Oh leave me alone.)
Seriously though (don’t you hate when people say that? Shut up you serious @!$*), listen up everyone, this could save lives.
First, a definition or two. The kind of Bitchitis that we are discussing, which I term type O (for ‘Ohmygod, what a biatch’), is an acute case of habitually unpleasant behaviour, typically, but by no means exclusively, exhibited in the adult female human, with chronic bouts in the adolescent phase. An elevated use of italics and brackets is a telltale sign. (Why do I do this to myself?)
Although commonly confused with type B (‘Boy, are you a lame-ass’) Bitchitis, an illness originating from weakness, with symptoms including being whipped, vocally expressing the desire to go home early when everyone else is having a great time, complaining A LOT, freaking out for no reason, over-exaggerating, and severe loss of humour (definition half-nicked from Urbandictionary.com, feel free to sue), the differences are manifest.
Now a word on contagion: if the sufferer is type O, expect to lose your sense of compassion toward said patient within a minute or so. Also, some irritation may be experienced, followed by a growing urge to kill yourself or the sufferer. By no means physically advance toward within 5ft of the sufferer; you will sustain an injury. In severe cases, uninfected victims of Bitchitis-induced violence have been known to lose limbs, sustaining intense head injuries from having been repeatedly struck with aforementioned body part, after having shared intimate proximity with a sufferer.
(If you think that prognosis is bad, then you really don’t want to know what happens if contact with a type B sufferer occurs. Suffice it to say, we’re all screwed.)
Prevention: don’t bother with face masks, that will just give the sufferer more reason to mock and generally be bitchy to you. I recommend self-imposed quarantine and giving any suspected carriers of the infection a very wide berth until they get over it (and themselves) and admit what massively incomprehensible jerks they have been.
Someone tell the Prime Minister, this is the pandemic that will probably see humanity crumble into a pile of its own misery.
On that cheery note kids, I’m going to prescribe myself three ladles of gin and a lie down until this current spell passes. Keep well.
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