Last night I hit the wall. I know I should have hit the sack, sheets, or hay—whichever hits the right note for you—but I decided to hit the books instead.
After all, my performance has been hit or miss lately, and I wanted to hit the ground running for a change. I don’t need to hit it outta the park, exactly, or even to hit the jackpot or the big time, but I’d like to hit pay dirt, and maybe even hit above my weight.
So I decided to hit the gas. Just as I started hitting on all cylinders, though, my roommate came in, so I had to hit the brakes.
It was clear she was trying to hit on the right thing to say. She can hit close to home but isn’t known for hitting below the belt. I usually listen to her: she can hit the nail on the head. We hit it off from the first.
But as she started talking, I realized that she’d been hitting the booze. She not only hit a nerve, she hit me where it hurts the most.
I hit the roof, I admit it. I told her that in her condition, she not only couldn’t hit the bullseye, she couldn’t even hit the side of a barn. I suggested coldly that she hit the road before she hit rock bottom.
Hitting my stride, as a parting shot I told her not to let the door hit her in the ass on her way out.
She was hard hit, I could see that: maybe even hit for six. I don’t think she knew what hit her.