Once upon a time, I spent a good chunk of nearly every day typing words into a machine. The words weren’t particulary brilliant ones–they weren’t going to win a Pulitzer Prize or anything–but they were usually funny or insightful or at least present. Now they seem to have scattered away along with my youth. (I’m fricking 61, man. How did that happen?)
I looked around for a few, but other than a couple of hushed giggles and what I swear was a whispered, “Shhh! He’ll hear us!” they have gone into hiding. So, to spite them, I’m going to make up new words. Words like confibble and fracturupous. (I’ll work out what they mean later.)
So, with macrobious flangesness, I shall incumulate my relationist with these villicumus words. I don’t need the old ones when I have mothratic polemiquas at my disposion. We shall frollicize and playgirize with woundid abanlon…and I’ll try not to just misspell real words too much. Oh, the emcosion we will have!
My not-so-secret plan is that by hanging out with my new word friends, I’ll make the old ones jealous, and they’ll come back to me. It’s a solid plan. It’s been used countless times by people with their exes, and it always works. At least that’s what I’ve been told…