Words from Emily:
du jour
honied
horndog
wild blue yonder
wigless
dorkbutt
cradlesong
bellyache

Quit yer bellyaching. Not exactly a cradlesong. No one ever says “Can you turn up that bellyaching? I’m really getting into it!” Except with sarcasm. Which is a pestilence upon the Earth. IMHO.

I am feeling dimwitted and lame tonight in the writing department. I could liken myself unto a dorkbutt, where I motivated thusly. Sadly the words du jour do not seem adequate to the task of rousing me from my malaise.

Horndog is not in my dictionary, but I believe it means someone who is prone to fits of randiness and inappropriate in their pursuit of relief from said affliction. Which makes me wonder, because this trait would be an asset to a caveman, in the evolutionary sense of causing more of his sperm to litter the Earth. Or rather, the Earth’s vaginas. Just littering the Earth wouldn’t serve. But in contrast, now such a trait doth invite censure. One wonders about the future of the human species, when procreative enthusiasm is frowned upon.

ARRGH. I am frustrated by existence sometimes. It’s so imprecise.

Ever since this psychic told me I hailed from a different planet altogether and was only here on a lark to try this gushy love stuff that Earth was on about I’ve been mildly annoyed that my etheric self made such a ghastly decision. You mean I was in a world of precision, of instantaneous and complete communication, of full and certain knowledge, and then I looked out at the wild blue yonder of space and said OH I KNOW I’ll go to EARTH because won’t that be a yarn? Yes, sign me up for the unpredictable and inexplicably calibrated internal barometer we call FEELINGS. That will be such a grand adventure!

Oh, my own bellyaching doth tire me. I will, perhaps, one day, decide that this Earth lark was a good idea and be truly happy about my decision to be born here. I have yet to reach that point. But since I’ve stated such before, and no new wisdom seems forthcoming, I want to leave the whole question lying there, like a steaming pile of feces, which one knows will become more manageable as air and time confer desiccation upon it. (Hopefully it’s not steaming on the carpet, or your unfinished wood floor, or another porous surface, imbuing it with its scatological juices in irremovable fashion).

Gross.
To use the word wigless I need a context for which that would be noteable. Most people are wigless. Who would it be a noteworthy state upon? A cancer patient? A doll? Or I suppose I could tell a story of a de-wigging and describe the victim as such.

Perhaps I could state it thusly: If I were to think that a wig would improve my mood, I might mourn my wigless state. But as I am not so illusioned, I am at least content that I’m not missing a honied, beatific, pastoral wigfull time.

BLAH! she cried in futility.

I shall now get on to my programming, that delightfully exact pursuit.