We're back to one of my favorite subjects: weapons. Weapons, that is, for moi! (That's French for "me.")
I continue to work on The Wretch to get me a weapon. If I can't get a gun, let me have a taser. When I say taser, I mean a real, honest-to-goodness taser that shoots out little prongs that hook themselves into my target's body and level him. I don't want one of those wimpy tasers that just gives an electric shock.
The Wretch, wretch that he is, doesn't want me to even have this would-be gun. He says it's for my own protection, that I might hurt myself. Please. I managed to make it through four pregnancies that averaged 27 months apiece and he thinks I can't handle a tiny shock?
No. He's concerned about his own hide. For the life of me, I can't imagine why he's concerned IF he treats me right. And that's the sticking point. He knows he doesn't always treat me right.
Gem for the day: Once more this is for the males out there: If you don't want to be tasered by your wife, girlfriend, or live-in, don't piss her off.
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