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(Not really; I just like the assonance)
I get stressed at breaking promises. Yesterday, I promised you a poem a day over on my other blog but I have already broken my word. I am lying here on my sick bed typing this, my South African poems neatly tucked up in my memory stick in a box in the kitchen cupboard. I couldn’t go down to get it if a bag of Maltesers depended on it (I think now you will comprehend the seriousness of my malaise). Fortunately for me I never signed anything, so you can’t sue me.
That’s not the case for this blog: I did sign up for postaday2011 and I’m stressing that I might miss a post and it’s only the sixth day of what looks like being a rather long blogging year.
I’m stressed by predictive text. I can not send a text to save my life or those Maltesers. The phone hardly ever shows the word I’m looking for and when it does, I don’t know how to scroll down to it. Assuming I have any money on my phone to send a text, that is: I always seem to be running out even though I never call or text anyone. My nephew gave me a new old phone before Christmas and I’m certain it is possessed: it kept dialling up the internet in my pocket and spent £9.47 before I noticed. On porn, probably; why else access the internet in secret? Mind you, for £9.47 it will have been lucky to see a naked finger.
I’m stressed sometimes at living in a mess. The Hub has been refused access to the new kitchen and bathroom and I take refuge there when his model aeroplanes, airline wings, pins and cards that keep him sane in his illness threaten to send me over the edge.
I’ll tell you what I’m not stressed at; in fact I’m impressed with: the many ways I can STRESS a word like ‘stress’, or any
Ain’t personal computing grand? If you know what you’re doing, that is; which, thankfully, some of my readers do so my Word documents no longer show every ‘Enter’ button I’ve ever pressed. Thank you, one and all, for the advice. I knew I could count on you.
Down to business: my body is in distress and I could be depressed but I’m blessed with the gift of constant happiness; all I need is rest. I confess I’ve put on a vest at the Hub’s behest; he’s prepared some cress in a lettuce nest; we’ll let it digest then play some chess: the winner has to do impressions of Herman Hesse, Sharon Gless, Elliot Ness and a dog called Jess who is a bit of a pest. Lest we feel oppressed, it’s done in jest; it’s not a test.
I like to think I’m the greatest rhymer in the West, but I guess this is the end of my quest to rhyme every possible word with ‘stress’ and ‘WordPress’. I know there’s still ‘tress’ but I’ve done my best. If you’re aware of more, do share at this address in your largesse. Don’t suppress them unless it’s necessary in the name of progress. Nevertheless, have an ego caress for your cleverness.