shrew me

You know those days when you can't help but shooting off a zinger? I wish I could say that I wasn't adept at flinging supposedly harmless insults. I wish I could say that I was as demure as a butterfly flitting along in the middle of June. I wish I could say that I was funny instead of a stupid wit. And I wish I could say that I didn't lob off some beautiful remarks that hit much harder than I intended.

It's a shame Shakespeare's shrews aren't more well-liked, otherwise I could have a nice character career as the unreachable lass whose bark is infinitely worse than her bite.

Sigh. I think this is what I get for talking to gnomes. Sorry.

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