(no subject)
Dear internet,
This evening I offered a booty call to a fairly reliable connection, and was turned down.
This isn't terribly surprising.
But the reason given wasn't "I haven't shaved my legs" or "I'm not in the mood," or even "I don't like you like that/it would complicate things." No. This person had a better idea of her Saturday night: she was going to catalog her collection of Star Trek: Voyager episodes that she taped off television.
I promise I'm not making that up. My penis was passed over for Star Trek. Not for viewing, underlined, but rather the counting and reckoning of episodes owned and stolen (and, if he added nerdily, for a very inferior series).
This means one of three things:
1) My penis is a pretty shitty organ (I am, believe it or not, very open to this possibility; it would explain many things);
2) I really need to get out of this town
3) No, I mean I really, really, really, REALLY need to get out of here.
This evening I offered a booty call to a fairly reliable connection, and was turned down.
This isn't terribly surprising.
But the reason given wasn't "I haven't shaved my legs" or "I'm not in the mood," or even "I don't like you like that/it would complicate things." No. This person had a better idea of her Saturday night: she was going to catalog her collection of Star Trek: Voyager episodes that she taped off television.
I promise I'm not making that up. My penis was passed over for Star Trek. Not for viewing, underlined, but rather the counting and reckoning of episodes owned and stolen (and, if he added nerdily, for a very inferior series).
This means one of three things:
1) My penis is a pretty shitty organ (I am, believe it or not, very open to this possibility; it would explain many things);
2) I really need to get out of this town
3) No, I mean I really, really, really, REALLY need to get out of here.