Knowing someone has a thing for you has its upsides; you get to pretend like you’re not in the least bit flattered yet secretly you enjoy the attention. You answer their overly personal game of twenty questions with nonchalance and shrugs. You drop subtle hints of things you want and/or need then they magically appear. You act aloof and disinterested even though on some level the potential of human contact is the greatest thing to happen to you since that time you decided to eat soup in bed and kept the spill on your pillow for a midnight snack. Minestrone, you old devil!
* Thanks, it’s my own recipe. I use cheddar cheese instead of water. *
But when you know it will never, ever, in a million years be a thing. Every tactless wink, every attempt at gratuitous body contact, every moment of plutonic banter and every time you catch them raping your unprotected body with their eyeballs makes you want to shrink them down, stuff them in a glass bottle, hide them in a HIVy gash and beat that shit like it’s a piñata on Cinco de Mayo. Especially when it’s at work.
*Never dip your nib in the office ink. *
In light of that particularly unfortunate situation I have been toying with the idea of celibacy. It makes sense. The thought of touching anything remotely phallic fills me with a mixture of anger and fear reserved for the Furby that I hid in my sock drawer at night in order to muffle its demonic phrases before I threw it out the window – not sure if actual childhood memory or plot to The Exorcist.
* I’m going to speak to some food about this. *
I don’t think I could really commit to celibacy though. Considering the pleasure I get from consuming a whole loaf of sourdough is tantamount to orgasm. It would just be wrong. I have been secretly hoping that a coeliac bites me and I become afflicted with gluten intolerance. Both celibacy and bread related abstinence seem somewhat unlikely after the cute sales assistant at the bakery correctly identified my Salvador Dali print jumper, smiled and made my tummy feel funny. Or maybe that was the couple of glasses of wine I had at 2:00pm. Either way, I’m back on the wagon.
* But I already have a drink. Do you think he’d buy me mozzarella sticks? *
So now that it’s well and truly wintertime down under. I can’t for the life of me understand why women continue to dress as though it’s the height of summer. It’s extremely frustrating. I understand that you have daddy issues and an overwhelming desire to parade around like a common whore. But can you please just wear some pants or a garment larger than your fake breasts instead of an outfit comprised predominately of bras and underwear. To those delightful women who scorn the latter please remember to carry a “slippery when wet” sign with you. Your trailing flaps have managed to make the sidewalk “slicker than cat shit on linoleum floor.”
* Mr. Gravity’s been very unkind to that woman. *
I realized that I’ve invested more time in this blog than into any one of my actual relationships. Probably because most of them acted like they were doing a fuck by numbers in the bedroom. And after reading that one in twenty five people are sociopaths I’m concerned that these last five months spent laying out my particular brand of crazy might not stand me in good stead for any sort of relationship; on the wagon or no. Oh well, what can you do? Lawyers are also the second most likely profession to harbor sociopaths. So what with my graduation looming and classes commencing in August at least I know I’m heading in the right direction. Now is a good a time as any time to watch The Pelican Brief and align my career once again with a role played by Julia Roberts. The former was finding a rich husband to take me to polo and curb my whimsical, slutty ways.
*Ugh, as if! *
I can do both.