Shit, steam and serotonin
I’m staying.
Of course today was a fab day for me to get hit by stomach cramps, forcing me to take a day off work just after I’ve said I’ll stay another three months. They have plans for me, which seem to revolve around me being handed gigabytes of PLC code and sent to a mine in the desert where they dig up copper and urani…ahem…copper, yeah. No wonder I’ve been shitting all morning. This may soon become the story of a gayboy in the desert who is surrounded by more blokes named Darryl and Trevor than you can poke your shlong at - not that such a move would be advisable.
Pardon me a moment while I dash to the bathroom for the 4583020th time today.
.
.
.
Good-o.
I gave gaydar another shot on the weekend but gave it up again when too many guys started inviting themselves over to watch a movie and “just go from there”. Oh and then, just to round off a sordid weekend and satisfy a lingering curiosity, I went to one of those steamy places. I won’t be undertaking that experiment/mistake again, ugh. Post-SSRI Simon sometimes does things that pre-SSRI Simon would have considered foolhardy but occasionally Serotonin Confidence (TM) turns around and bites you on the dick.
In a move that may pertain to the aforementioned, my first non-colonic motion of today was to, in future, adhere to a disinclination towards any permutation of casual sex. I’ve not really been a ho up until now. Indeed, my short term (like minutes or hours long) bed-based (and car-based) dalliances could be counted on one hand but these have been sufficient iterations of essentially one experience to tell me that I am more a boyfriend brand of fag. Here begins a fruitless search…
Love is butter; won't you be my bread? - Macy Gray
Of course today was a fab day for me to get hit by stomach cramps, forcing me to take a day off work just after I’ve said I’ll stay another three months. They have plans for me, which seem to revolve around me being handed gigabytes of PLC code and sent to a mine in the desert where they dig up copper and urani…ahem…copper, yeah. No wonder I’ve been shitting all morning. This may soon become the story of a gayboy in the desert who is surrounded by more blokes named Darryl and Trevor than you can poke your shlong at - not that such a move would be advisable.
Pardon me a moment while I dash to the bathroom for the 4583020th time today.
.
.
.
Good-o.
I gave gaydar another shot on the weekend but gave it up again when too many guys started inviting themselves over to watch a movie and “just go from there”. Oh and then, just to round off a sordid weekend and satisfy a lingering curiosity, I went to one of those steamy places. I won’t be undertaking that experiment/mistake again, ugh. Post-SSRI Simon sometimes does things that pre-SSRI Simon would have considered foolhardy but occasionally Serotonin Confidence (TM) turns around and bites you on the dick.
In a move that may pertain to the aforementioned, my first non-colonic motion of today was to, in future, adhere to a disinclination towards any permutation of casual sex. I’ve not really been a ho up until now. Indeed, my short term (like minutes or hours long) bed-based (and car-based) dalliances could be counted on one hand but these have been sufficient iterations of essentially one experience to tell me that I am more a boyfriend brand of fag. Here begins a fruitless search…
Love is butter; won't you be my bread? - Macy Gray