Dead drunk on the brutal concrete floor. Not thinking, as is typical of the species, “Why’d she say that, the rabid dog?”
No, me a lingualist to the last dying synapse, I’m mano-a-mano with the elusive English category: Words what end in ‘id‘, all the better to make her feel really, really bad.
I do prefer the ‘ending-in’ searches, them-there being less vulnerable to crude dictionary attacks. Which at this point I need like a retro-virus.
And ‘Rabid’ is too good for her. Implies that even germs find her attractive. So what does that make me?
No, ‘vapid’ is more like it. Something to do with a vacuum, I think. Yeah, I’ll go with that.
Cuz the chick sucks as a friend. One day hot, the next day, frigid. If I felt like joking, I’d say that on average she was ‘tepid’.
But I don’t. No, I jus wanna die here, nostrils smashed into the solid cement.
I do want to know what makes this horrid woman tick, though. Call it ‘morbid’ curiosity, I care?
I wuz stupid to fall for this Cupid in sheep’s clothes. Pulled the wool over my eyes. She prolly sez the same about me.
“Your coming un-rapid!” she screams, knoweth-ing not what she’s sayeth-ing.
“Am not!” I counter. I will not be called ‘un-lucid’ by by this putrid little arachnid.
I roll over on the dismal floor-without-pity, seeking my ‘flat’ side, teeth biting into the aggregate. Oh well. It’s been years since I had a million-dollar smile. Nice even teeth I got: 1,3,5,7, and 9 are missing. I lose a cuspid about once a year, and a bi-cuspid ‘bi-annually‘. I
don’t even know what that word means. I’m losing it, is all I know. Pallid, I lie on this insipid floor, in this fetid vocab-id swamp, where even words fail me; sinking forever into the languid, liquid depths.
Yes, I guess it’s over, Friends. I’m defeatid. (no, your ‘defeated‘(!) -ed)