Ever get annoyed? Ever feel like someone needs to be told where the dog died? Or handed a crowbar and a tub of Elbow Grease to help them pry their head out of their arse? Congratulations--you've come to the right place.

And when I'm not commenting on the latest thing to piss me off, I'm trying to figure out my own twisted life. Because, hey, I'm like that.

On a gentler note: for anyone dealing with depression, anxiety, and other assorted bullshit: You are NOT alone.

And if you're looking for a laugh, search on the key word "fuckery." It's just my little thing (as the bishop said to the actress).

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Premature Blogulation

Well, I spoke too soon. Ex is not an ex. Good thing he didn't make it into the open mic material last night... Talk about cutting yourself off. (And no one but he and I knows why that line would be funnier than hell. And anyone intelligent and dirty enough to interpret it.)

Mood has lifted. That bothers me--how much sex affects my mood. I once had a friend say to me, "If I knew all it would take to get you to act human was to get you laid, I would have done it myself." (Mind you, he introduced me to my ex-husband for exactly that purposed--the two of them had shared digs back in the crazier parts of the 70's and had shared a hell of a lot more. He's the reason I have an issue with dating anyone more than 15 years younger than I am--having someone put an arm around your fiance, look at you while you're lying there naked [and we won't mention what else] and say, "Get 'em young and raise 'em right, eh, buddy?" makes you think twice about repeating history.)

But it HAS lifted, and without the application of external chemicals (although it is time for meds. Joy, joy... thyroid and anti-depressants make my day go forward...). Of course, the prospect of achieving a long-held fantasy tonight has a lot to do with it. Although why I'm still in the office talking to the blog and procrastinating rather than racing home, showering and prepping beats the fuck out of me.

Probably because my ability to trust is not extensive. But there's something going on with this guy... I have been so depressed at the thought of not seeing him again. I mean, the last two... no big deal. Rugby Boy was hot, hung and KINKY... shit, WHAT A STORY that night's going to make (probably not part of the stand-up--it's more like a novel episode for the Kinsale Chronicles). Ditto for Mr. Teacher (I will never be able to order a sex on the beach again with a straight face... just the thought of that night has me chortling... And I was afraid certain types of sex would be awkward after surgery... YES!) OK, I'll stop gloating about that one. I felt a little regret when it became clear they were full of shit about wanting to get together again, but it was a twinge... just a "Yeah, OK, whatev, your loss, dumbass."

This guy has gotten under my skin. Not good.

Wish I could make up my mind about love. Wish there wasn't such ambivalence. Part of me... part of me longs for partnership. Part of me hasn't got the patience to deal with my own shit, never mind someone else's.

But I like him. I actually like him. Feel like I've known him forever. Despite the fact we've been sexting each other mercilessly, the two times we've been together have been lovely--seriously lovely. Nothing spectacular--nothing over-rated chick flicks are made of--just lovely in the ordinary, comfortable sense.

Scares the livin' fuck out of me. Which is probably why I went moderately psycho and over-reacted when I didn't get an instant reply on Saturday night. *sigh* Damn PMDD. And then no reply when I called him to apologize and say that I hoped I'd misjudged him. If I hadn't hit his number by accident on the stupid touchscreen (I love my little 'droid, but it's as cranky as R2-friggin-D2) instead of my mom's boss (same prefix on their telephone number, so don't give me any shit) tonight wouldn't be happening.

OK, I am NOT going to get sentimental... I am not going to believe that Fate had a hand because this is my fucked-up comic tragedy of a life, and my luck in love SUCKS. Probably going to find out he's got a 3" dick erect and is addicted to meth and has herpes.

Which reminds me of a funny story... I have a really strict rule about not allowing exes in my life once it's over and done with, and I have all my money and stuff back (or made the dirty arsed rat fucker come through on his promises which is why Edwad was allowed to stick around until he'd done the brakes on The Beast. I lost a baby, he did my fuckin' brakes, the worthless cunt). Anyway, the only one I ever made an exception for was Irish Joe because he was my first love, and Jesus Christ and the Nailbanger Five, was I STOOOOOOPID.

Anyway, Irish Joe was making the pitch for us to get back together for the umpteenth time, and I was saying no for the umpteenth time. We'd tried it once, it hadn't worked, he'd SUCKED in bed, and I'd realized what a total loser he was, especially since he'd lost his looks and had taken too many shots to the head.
So we're talking, and somehow got on the subject of Jews, and having dated several Jewish guys (and been married to one) and had a damn good experience with them in bed, without thinking, I said, "Mmmmmm... I do love to keep kosher."
To which his response was dead silence.
"What?" I said.
"What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean?"
Well, I really put my foot in it. "The best lovers I've ever had were Jewish guys." (This was before my long spate of Brit boys. Oooooohhhhhh, the Brit Boys... mmmmmmm... yeah. I'll take an English Banger any day. [And yes, I know the contradiction there, but the pun is so worth it.] Despite the fact that if I take a step towards a man with an English accent, my friends are going to jump me with baseball bats.)
Well, Irish Joe had a fucking fit. Mind you, he was a bigoted little bogtrotter (I can use that one; I'm a member of the tribe, and thank you, Eugene O'Neill for teaching me that one). He hated everyone and had a slur for everyone. Remind me to tell you the one about the n-bomb sometime. Irish Joe is good for stories.
ANYWAY... He explodes with, "HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT TO ME?!? I went down on ya, I tried ta make ya happy, and you like JEWS better?"
And then I put the other foot in. "Well, it wasn't meant to be a criticism, Joe. Aside from the fact they're really attentive, they're also pretty well-hung--"
At which point, he humiliated himself by saying, "I guess four inches ain't good enough for ya."

I am VERY proud to report that I did not burst out braying with laughter at that statement. Fuck knows, I wanted to. It took every ounce of self control--and thank the Gods we were on the phone because face-to-face, I wouldn't have been able to control myself. I would have been on the floor, howling. Four inches isn't enough for ANY woman, not if she's being honest, at least not if she's built like me.

I'm TALL and long. I can't have my yearly gynecological exam done by my regular doctor because my canal is deep and they don't have the long speculum in the GP's office. So while I may not know how big my cunt is (thank you, Jim Jefferies, for that image... I never knew what the pinky finger thing meant, but I agree that it's cruel, and your response is priceless), I do know that it's deep. And Irish Joe's pitiful four inches were not enough. Well, the man they were attached to was woefully inadequate--stupid, narrow-minded, devoutly Catholic, Boston Irish to the point of being handicapped, a thug, and just not a decent human being. Oh, and being six inches short that I am didn't help, either, as those were the days I wore heels.

Yes, I'm distracting myself. And now... now, I am going to commit a blatant act of faith and go home and get ready for this date. Because it's going to happen.

*deep breath*

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