Woman Vs. Wood

Shall it be death by fire?
 
Or perhaps I shall back over it with my car, and then advance, and then back over it again.  Surely it would crack then, rendering it useless.
 
Maybe I should plan a stealth operation and paddlenap it, under the cover of darkness, from its resting place in D's toybag.
 
No matter the method, that paddle has got to go.
 
I say this without any hint of coyness.  There is no love-hate relationship here.  My abhorrence of the thick, wooden paddle is pure and unadulterated -- I see that thing in D's hand and my blood turns to ice.    It's as if everything else in the universe ceases to exist and there is just that paddle and me, in a stand-off.
This morning, after the paddle retreated to the Black Bag of Hell,  I searched for evidence of our last battle -- a battle from which I tearfully  emerged, defeated.  I searched under and between my cheeks, everywhere.  But there were no marks.  There was nothing to indicate how much I hurt, how much I cringed and pleaded with it to cease its relentless assault.
 
The paddle is mocking me.  It is belittling me, reminding me that it hasn't used its full strength yet, its battalion of troops still waiting in the wings.   I do not appreciate mockery.  I do not appreciate its cowardly attack from behind my back -- be paddle enough and face me, woman vs. wood.
 
I will win.  That paddle will be decimated.  One day.  The gauntlet has been thrown and I will claim my rightful title of "Pink the Great" and all the imps will cheer.
 
I will go medieval on its ass, like it has on mine, pulling it apart splinter by wicked splinter.     And I will laugh my evil laugh as it is reduced to a pile of kindling at my feet.
 
Mwuahaha.
 
Die, paddle, die.