(no subject)
Any normal, red-blooded male would be in bed right now, sound asleep, trying to avoid the dreaded wet spot.
Of those men, about a third would be underneath a woman, sound asleep, trying to avoid the dreaded wet spot.
Of the first group of men, maybe an eighth would be underneath a woman, definitely not asleep, and getting ready to avoid the dreaded wet spot.
And me?
I'm in front of the computer, directionless, erectionless, and with Prince and the Revolution as my only company.
But DAMN, is 'Purple Rain' still a wickedly good song, or what?
Anyways, I was getting ready to have a sweet dream about my private island, or my future wife, or (like Billy Crystal) my giant. I'd gotten to that little point where you're about to fall asleep but you're still a little awake, and your body won't obey your commands to move it's fat ass. I can usually tell when I'm about to fall asleep by following this simple process:
- Imagine myself in some remote setting.
- Introduce characters, Scottish bagpipe players, and the occasional llama into the mix.
- Begin having some kind of weird spiritual experience/adventure with said party.
- When adventure is finished, try to recall from beginning.
If I can't do it all, I know I'm just ready to conk out. I'd resigned myself to a good night's sleep when my trusty cellphone (set to wake me up at 7.00 AM) started vibrating just before my 'Hikari' ringtone started up.
'If you're not a beautiful woman with long brown hair, I'm hanging up...'
'Jon? Ih...Ih...Is that you?'
'Yes, who else would it be? Do you have any idea what time it is?'
'Yes, I know, and I'm ... I'm... s...s...sor-reee-heee-heee-heee...'
'...(yawn)...okay sweetie, head to sleep and I'll see you tomorrow afternoon...now if you don't mind, I'm gonna have to jerk it back to sleep.'
'Okay Jon...Thank you...'
'Good night.'
Last time I answered a call like that, she'd been dumped by her idiot boyfriend and needed someone to talk to. I'd wondered why she hadn't called one of her girlfriends, or maybe woken up her roomie, or generally talked to someone with ovaries and a more intimate perspective on the whole sha-bang-a-bang. They could have made some popcorn, busted out the 'Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood' DVD, and been able to talk man-problems, without involving an actual man.
This time, same girl, same idiot boyfriend (who I warned her about numerous times,) same go-to guy. Is there something I'm missing here?
It's actually not all that bad. Although I'm trading in an evening at a fantastic food and wine event, as well as shisha and conversation that could easily go well into the night for a box of chamomile tea, five Hershey's bars of various types, and a $12 bucket of Haagen-Dazs ice cream, it does afford me a certain insight into the female psyche that most males don't get to see. As well, I think it'll prepare me for the listening that I'll undoubtedly have to do when I get into one of those relationship deals.
Now I know what some of you are thinking. 'She's hot for you. She wants you to be the guy she kisses in the morning, the guy who hugs her from behind and makes her feel safe, the guy whose lap she puts her head on when you're talking in the park.'
I'd be lying if I said the thought hadn't crossed my mind. It's a bit like an emotional vacuum when a couple hits splitsville; in her case, it hurts twice as much because this is the second time the pinhead's left her.
(I'm not calling him a pinhead because I don't like him. I'm calling him a pinhead because he has enough facial piercings to double as a barbed-wire fence.)
I'm not quite ready to swoop in there. I'll get sucked in, or something worse.
So later today, I'll grab my gear, head to her house, give her a big hug, kiss her on the cheek, and stroke her hair as she lays her head in my lap and goes to sleep.
Now I'm tired enough to not have to jerk it back to sleep. Maybe I can wake up without dried semen on my hands, for once. Wee!
Of those men, about a third would be underneath a woman, sound asleep, trying to avoid the dreaded wet spot.
Of the first group of men, maybe an eighth would be underneath a woman, definitely not asleep, and getting ready to avoid the dreaded wet spot.
And me?
I'm in front of the computer, directionless, erectionless, and with Prince and the Revolution as my only company.
But DAMN, is 'Purple Rain' still a wickedly good song, or what?
Anyways, I was getting ready to have a sweet dream about my private island, or my future wife, or (like Billy Crystal) my giant. I'd gotten to that little point where you're about to fall asleep but you're still a little awake, and your body won't obey your commands to move it's fat ass. I can usually tell when I'm about to fall asleep by following this simple process:
- Imagine myself in some remote setting.
- Introduce characters, Scottish bagpipe players, and the occasional llama into the mix.
- Begin having some kind of weird spiritual experience/adventure with said party.
- When adventure is finished, try to recall from beginning.
If I can't do it all, I know I'm just ready to conk out. I'd resigned myself to a good night's sleep when my trusty cellphone (set to wake me up at 7.00 AM) started vibrating just before my 'Hikari' ringtone started up.
'If you're not a beautiful woman with long brown hair, I'm hanging up...'
'Jon? Ih...Ih...Is that you?'
'Yes, who else would it be? Do you have any idea what time it is?'
'Yes, I know, and I'm ... I'm... s...s...sor-reee-heee-heee-heee...'
'...(yawn)...okay sweetie, head to sleep and I'll see you tomorrow afternoon...now if you don't mind, I'm gonna have to jerk it back to sleep.'
'Okay Jon...Thank you...'
'Good night.'
Last time I answered a call like that, she'd been dumped by her idiot boyfriend and needed someone to talk to. I'd wondered why she hadn't called one of her girlfriends, or maybe woken up her roomie, or generally talked to someone with ovaries and a more intimate perspective on the whole sha-bang-a-bang. They could have made some popcorn, busted out the 'Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood' DVD, and been able to talk man-problems, without involving an actual man.
This time, same girl, same idiot boyfriend (who I warned her about numerous times,) same go-to guy. Is there something I'm missing here?
It's actually not all that bad. Although I'm trading in an evening at a fantastic food and wine event, as well as shisha and conversation that could easily go well into the night for a box of chamomile tea, five Hershey's bars of various types, and a $12 bucket of Haagen-Dazs ice cream, it does afford me a certain insight into the female psyche that most males don't get to see. As well, I think it'll prepare me for the listening that I'll undoubtedly have to do when I get into one of those relationship deals.
Now I know what some of you are thinking. 'She's hot for you. She wants you to be the guy she kisses in the morning, the guy who hugs her from behind and makes her feel safe, the guy whose lap she puts her head on when you're talking in the park.'
I'd be lying if I said the thought hadn't crossed my mind. It's a bit like an emotional vacuum when a couple hits splitsville; in her case, it hurts twice as much because this is the second time the pinhead's left her.
(I'm not calling him a pinhead because I don't like him. I'm calling him a pinhead because he has enough facial piercings to double as a barbed-wire fence.)
I'm not quite ready to swoop in there. I'll get sucked in, or something worse.
So later today, I'll grab my gear, head to her house, give her a big hug, kiss her on the cheek, and stroke her hair as she lays her head in my lap and goes to sleep.
Now I'm tired enough to not have to jerk it back to sleep. Maybe I can wake up without dried semen on my hands, for once. Wee!