please stop talking to me about your boyfriends, your sweethearts who pick you up from work or school and whisk you away to dinner and then send you home to your doorstep. (oh, but of course, before they leave, they have a nice conversation with your mother about your dad's health and "don't worry, i'll pick her up next time she is late also, aunty!")

don't bother me with details about his favourite hairdo and his catchphrase and his collection of raoul shirts and his cute-ass habit of sending you msmes of various parts of his body when you miss them. (gag me gag me gag me.)

stop your chatter about his cute buns and how they are all yours (please, by all means, keep them!).

enough of the blow-by-blow commentaries on your dates and semi-dates and chill-out, make-out, make-LURVE sessions. (-covers her ears and hums a happy tune-)

it's like talking to paraplegics about what it feels like to run.

they knew what it was like. they miss it. but they can't anymore. that's that!

SO STOP FUCKING RUBBING IT IN!

(ah. much better! now, if you will excuse me, i have a life to drag my arse through. ta!)