Confession is good for the soul.

So they say.

Personally, I always thought confession was for dirty old priests to get their happy pants on.

Forgive me father, For I have sinned… it has been a shagload of days since my last confession.

You either got Hail Mary time until you went cross-eyed or if you were an altar boy, a private visit with the dude in the dress. (Apologies to the Catholics)

 And if I was to actually take my ’sins’ to confession; some old frocked fucker would have either a spontaneous erection that would jump up and choke him or he would be found lying dead on the ground with the Parish cats gnawing at him.

But this is not about dirty old Parish priests with their penchant for ripe young altar boys.

This is about the biggest fight I’ve ever had with the Bunny.

Mind you, it could have a lot to do with trying to have a deep and meaningful with someone at 5 in the morning.

I’ve not had nearly enough coffee at that time to be even semi-human.

Apparently, and you will be shocked to hear this, kids…

I have a foul mouth and an abrasive personality.

I know, I know - it’s hard to believe.

And will someone please apply a cold compress to the lurker who is shocked by that assessment of my character.

The Bunny is a warm, caring, but fuck me screaming over a barbed wire fence (hey, that sounds fun) um… back to the point. The Bunny is one of those guys who actually likes to talk.

I can hear Widdleshamrock saying “What the fuck, and where do you get the batteries for that?”

Yes, he likes to talk. He likes to examine every little thing and discuss.

Well, fuckadoodledoo… I do not. My days of doing a last minute, caffeine fueled, 2000 words on Discuss the use of imagery in the comic “Jack the Necrophiliac” or some other equally useless “discuss” assignment are over.

The piece of paper is on the wall, I wore the stupid board on my head, and I drank my own body weight in vodka to celebrate.

I don’t discuss!

But my dearest Bunny likes to discuss.

I tell him to discover the corosive properties of acid on the large intestine.

And all hell breaks loose.

He tells me, “Anja, sometimes I find it difficult to come to terms with your aloof attitude and your insistence on using foul language to avoid talking”

“Fuck you, fuck you sideways and fuck you and the horse you rode in on” was my polite reply.

Discussion closed. I needed coffee.

So now, dear reader, I must do what all good girls should do.

Make my confession.

I’m a bitch.

Meh, who gives a fuck?