Don’t we all, but of course. But since they are MY issues, I find them to be more important than anyone else’s issues.
However, at this time I would like to offer you some sage advice. Never do the old switcheroo with the mind, body, and soul of any being of any kind. It’ll just bring you buckets full of fun. Fun being defined as total and wretched hell. Actually, hell is an understatement. As the great and wise Sam Kinison once said, “Hell would be like Club Med.” And if that’s the case, come find me on the Lido deck when this is all over.
I have no idea what I was thinking. All I recall is seeing Nathan slumped back in a chair, looking glassy eyed and brain dead, with bodily fluids spewing from someplace or another. It was very reminiscent of his hazing days back in Annapolis. I saw those pictures he sent to Peter as inspiration for the boy to aspire to be something more than upstanding citizen with a ranging God complex. Nothing says accomplishment more than doing jello shots and blow lines off the ass of a mediocre-looking hooker.
Just ask my dead husband.
But as I was saying…
Yes. Drama abounds for me. I have some serious problems to contend with, none of which are barely palatable. Even all of the Beluga in Moscow can’t save me now. This mind swap thing has managed to even ruin my lunches. I never know with whom I’m sharing my wasabi and edamame with.
Is it Son A?
Or is it a combination there of?
Who’s to say? What happens is anyone’s guess. It’s complete and total shenanigans. Let the pandemonium begin.
And it’s not like I’m receiving any help of any kind. I’m not the only one with hands in the dirty bath water. Even though this was my not so bright idea, I wasn’t the one that went through with the evil act. If I recall correctly, I had two partners in this unspeakable crime.
Accomplice A: Detective Matt Parkman
Yes. Even Bruce Wayne knows that a to be a true hero, one must occasionally slum, and do something so skanky even the hired help would be ashamed of it. But to you, Detective Parkman, I must warn you that despite the snazzy get up, a leather suit that chisels out an Ando Masahasi six pack and dons you with a bondage mask for a hero does not make.
That little sh*t in your head is spot on. Use your power to help yourself, you martyr. That hooker ho that you still call your wife (even though you’re divorced) is cheating on you as if the world was ending. The Water Cooler boy? He’s the least of your worries. You have yet to meet the pimply mess behind the counter at In and Out Burger, Kevin Federline, and the ghost of Alejandro Herrera.
It seems the poor dear will take any scraps she can get her hands on. Though, perhaps she’s in the right. She should hedge her bets. After all, it only took the telepathic man all of five minutes to forget the “love of his life,” and that he and his turtle stalked her all the way from the airport to a cornfield in Tornado Alley, BFE. Viva la lost love. And get an STD test. Just a thought.
And as for Accomplice B, Mr. Noah Bennet?
That’s just the height of rudeness, is it not? Do I have any Grey Poupon? For what? For that weenie that he roasted over Sylar’s body when he was the bon fire du jour? (As opposed to his Baby Momma! SNAY-UP! OH NO I DIDN’T!!!)
I’ll give Noah this; at this moment, he’s lost in his own misery that his Haus Frau of a wife kicked him to the curb, and now he’ll have to broaden his horizons, put himself out there, and go for a woman that he can spit shine his glasses with.
Any woman who shows up at your home lingerie-clad or already in the nude already knows what she wants. Aside from that, even a woman like myself knows what perfection looks like. You could bounce a Japanese Yen off that ass of hers. Who cares about eating cereal for dinner when you can flaunt a lady like Miss Strauss in front of your ex-wife and her home perm?
It’s not that simpering Sandra made me want to throw up in my mouth. It’s just…simpering Sandra made me want to throw up in my mouth. Anyone that obsessed with a dog needs to go to the Jessica Simpson School of Doggie Co-dependence. Bow, wow, wow, indeed.
That and Miss Strauss is quite fond of the single strand, pearl necklace. A woman with fine tastes, if I do say so myself. And I do. So she is.
As for myself, I think I need some time to figure out what’s best for me in all of this. After all, it’s all about me, as it should be. But I have high hopes that with some good old fashioned self medicating, and some quality shut eye, I should be able to conjure up some kind of solution that benefits me to no end.
That, or I’m a dead woman in about three months. Does anyone want to bet on me in a death pool? Someone call Vegas and get the odds. I just may bet on myself.
Tick tock,
Dame Angela Petrelli
