(no subject)
James still getting on my nerves. At lunch today, we were talking about where we see ourselves in five or ten years time. Jess was lying in the sun in a villa in Spain while Alan chased a toddler in waterwings around their garden. James was living in an apartment building with a doorman in London. I was about to describe my house with it's huge library, squishy sofas of Doom and three kitties, when James says, in the most obnoxious "hoho, look at me embarrass and discomfort you" voice known to man, "And Catherine of course will be playing with her vibrator".
Okay, asshole. I realise that you are bitter because I have steadfastly rejected your sickening advances since some time in October. I realise that you "need" a relationship in order to justify your pathetic existance. I realise that a lot of this comes from your control freak of a mother, whom you lack the testicular fortitude to stand up to on even the most basic of issues. I even acknowledge that the collective jokes about you being gay probably didn't help, although, to paraphrase Alan, "it was alright when you were just a ponce, but I don't like you now you've turned into a pervy hetro", and also, I realise that I can't stop you having these revolting thoughts about me any more than you can stop me entertaining vivid fantasies about knocking your teeth so far down your throat that you'd be shitting molars until graduation.
But I'll thank you to shut the fuck up and stop going out of your way to make me uncomfortable or angry in public. I tolerate you at the moment because we have the same friends, but I am very, very close to losing my temper with your inappropriate touching and even more inappropriate comments.
Of course, his fucktardery did lead to inadvertant hilarity when I announced that I planned on owning a whole harem of vibrators, and that I would give them all names:
Froodle: And every time I got a new obsession with a character or an actor or something, I'd buy a new one and name it after them.
Jessica: Would you have an Erik one?
Froodle: Of course. Fifteen inches of black latex, with an ickle white half-mask over the head.
Jessica: Heehee, oooh, he could have a little soundchip in him so that when you're using him, he goes "Sing, my Angel of Music!" in Gerard Butler's voice.
Froodle: Oh man, that would rock So Hard.
Jessica: You'd have to buy him a Christine one, though. So he wouldn't get lonely.
Froodle: Aww, that would be so cute! They could go on little dates to the underwear drawer!
Jessica: I wonder what a Christine vibrator would look like... probably those pink and sparkly jelly ones.
Froodle: Ewww no, those remind me of Orlaris*. I don't want an Orlaris vibrator. Blue and sparkly would be okay, though. Or purple.
Jessica: What would you call them?
Froodle: I dunno, I'd have to get to know them first, so I can pick out a name that really suits them. I totally want an Erik vibrator now, though.
Jessica: Him and Christine could have little baby vibrators.
Froodle: Oooh, like those ones that are about three inches long and you can put them in your bag and carry them around with you?
Jessica: If you get one that's three inches long, I insist you call it Raoul.
And at that point, we laughed so hard that the thread of the conversation was lost and we went back to discussing Foucaultian constructs. Poor Raoul.
*Orlaris: Orlando Bloom as Paris. See also Bradchilles, Alexarrell and Jarphaestion, among others.
Okay, asshole. I realise that you are bitter because I have steadfastly rejected your sickening advances since some time in October. I realise that you "need" a relationship in order to justify your pathetic existance. I realise that a lot of this comes from your control freak of a mother, whom you lack the testicular fortitude to stand up to on even the most basic of issues. I even acknowledge that the collective jokes about you being gay probably didn't help, although, to paraphrase Alan, "it was alright when you were just a ponce, but I don't like you now you've turned into a pervy hetro", and also, I realise that I can't stop you having these revolting thoughts about me any more than you can stop me entertaining vivid fantasies about knocking your teeth so far down your throat that you'd be shitting molars until graduation.
But I'll thank you to shut the fuck up and stop going out of your way to make me uncomfortable or angry in public. I tolerate you at the moment because we have the same friends, but I am very, very close to losing my temper with your inappropriate touching and even more inappropriate comments.
Of course, his fucktardery did lead to inadvertant hilarity when I announced that I planned on owning a whole harem of vibrators, and that I would give them all names:
Froodle: And every time I got a new obsession with a character or an actor or something, I'd buy a new one and name it after them.
Jessica: Would you have an Erik one?
Froodle: Of course. Fifteen inches of black latex, with an ickle white half-mask over the head.
Jessica: Heehee, oooh, he could have a little soundchip in him so that when you're using him, he goes "Sing, my Angel of Music!" in Gerard Butler's voice.
Froodle: Oh man, that would rock So Hard.
Jessica: You'd have to buy him a Christine one, though. So he wouldn't get lonely.
Froodle: Aww, that would be so cute! They could go on little dates to the underwear drawer!
Jessica: I wonder what a Christine vibrator would look like... probably those pink and sparkly jelly ones.
Froodle: Ewww no, those remind me of Orlaris*. I don't want an Orlaris vibrator. Blue and sparkly would be okay, though. Or purple.
Jessica: What would you call them?
Froodle: I dunno, I'd have to get to know them first, so I can pick out a name that really suits them. I totally want an Erik vibrator now, though.
Jessica: Him and Christine could have little baby vibrators.
Froodle: Oooh, like those ones that are about three inches long and you can put them in your bag and carry them around with you?
Jessica: If you get one that's three inches long, I insist you call it Raoul.
And at that point, we laughed so hard that the thread of the conversation was lost and we went back to discussing Foucaultian constructs. Poor Raoul.
*Orlaris: Orlando Bloom as Paris. See also Bradchilles, Alexarrell and Jarphaestion, among others.