The indignant look splashed across her countenance prompted an entirely reasonable reaction of my utterance of "Jesus", loud enough so that there were no ambiguities as to what was said, who it was said to, nor why it was in fact said. My parents shared my view on this particular situation, with their own visages riddled with mixed looks of shock and hilarity over Li'l Miss Hoggo's boorish behaviour! My word! It was almost refreshing to receive such an attitude from the human equivalent of a pork belly covered in make-up, wearing work clothes from a well-known but unnamed retail department store chain (with a wig of human hair to top off the ensemble). Run, little pig, for your trough awaits! Who was I to deny the magnificent beast - with an intelligence allowing for an almost-authentic imitatation of a human being, and a spirit so wily as to allow it to clothe itself in an appropriate garb - of its spoils of war?
Rather than continue to its natural habitat, unimpeded by distractions, it turned around and looked directly into my eyes, with a look on its mug that visualised the phrase "What the fuck did you just say?", as best as could be replicated physically when the canvas of such a phrase resembled a failed Indian dish with eyes. As I'm a man of principles (as opposed to a man of principals, which may have rung true a few years back in that "dark" period where I was really into designer jackets and merlot), I wasn't going to have one bit of her being convinced that she in some way bested me with a mere gaze and a jiggle. My anger stirred, and I don't quite remember the exact words that were said while returning the unpleasant stare matched with unpleasantries, but it was akin to "Yeah? Come on then." It was quite a hilariously futile act on my part, but the speed of her retraction of the look and removal of herself from the situation was goddamn hilarious. What was even funnier was my parents' implicit backing up of my actions, much like the time that I gave the finger to someone in a car park who, for some idiotic reason, tried to drive right through us even though they, too, were blessed with as much spatial freedom (if not more) than the aforementioned lard-gutted lass.
Now I have a sore spot on my scalp, and it feels like someone has stabbed it just a little bit with an ice pick.
Also, I can't sleep.
Go to sleep, little Braddy. Too tired. ;_;
Man, that needed a lot of editing. Note to self: Don't write about crap at 2 A.M.