I Know I Am Not Alone
My God.
I know that nobody is, like, good at it, but I swear I am the worst Christmas shopper in the history of Earth.
Well, actually, I suppose I should redefine that. I don't mean that I can't physically go out and purchase items on a list. I do it three or four times a week at the grocery. I'm really quite good at that part.
What I mean is that I am the world's most unlucky shopper.
I have been out shopping twice, for three hours each time (in our town, that is a long, long time). In that amount of time, I managed to find only one item off of Sargon's 23-item list. Unbelievable, I tell you.
So I finally managed to find only one thing, the single most expensive item on the list. I gritted my teeth, purchased it, and left. On the way home, I decided to stop at one more place, just to see if I'd have better luck looking for this stuff used.
Immediately, I found the same item for half what I had just paid for it. I purchased it again, then went to return the original, which was an ordeal that deserves a post unto itself.
The line was only nine people long. It should not have taken more than fifteen minutes. I was there for forty-five (again, where I live, this is a long, long time) because the checker, who looked like an inbred cross between an Irishman and a hairless cat, vanished completely after serving only two people, and did not return.
It took so long that if you had left me on the floor with some rocks and a pile of birchbark, I could have started with fire and developed a working DVD player in the time it took him to return from masturbating the caged marmosets in the break room, or whatever he was doing. You could have left me with a log and two rocks, and I would have been able to create an X-box, enhanced with head-exploding alien technology. A geological age passed while I stood in line.
And for the duration of this uncalled-for delay, I was sandwiched between a leopard-print embellished woman with a very cute but very chatty four-year-old, and an aggressively tweed-clad businesswoman who smelled of menthol, leading me to believe that she might have some comminucable illness. I was also standing opposite a couple whose combined mass was roughly equal to that of a backhoe. The man had spider-veined calves as big as my waist. I swear I am not kidding. On a good day, I have a 29-inch waist. The woman looked like a fatter Shrek in a wig. And I do not exaggerate.
So I came home, poorer but no wiser, bearing with me the feeble fruits of my labors, which were promptly stuffed into a box and whored up with possibly the worst wrapping job I have ever done. A blind elf with no thumbs could do better.
All I have to say about this is that David Boreanaz had better take his shirt off in every single episode of the first season of Angel. Because otherwise, I shall be sorely put out.
In other semi-random news, I am trying like the devil to write porn, and not having much luck. Do you know how hard it is to write bondage porn for someone who isn't as into bondage as you are? Sargon is more into the fucking, and I consider the torture "foreplay" equal in interest to the actual sex.
Feh.
I'm also fighting the urge to write bondage-y Christmas carols.
Excuse me. I think I need to watch that episode of Buffy where Dru tortures Angel. Right now.
link
I know that nobody is, like, good at it, but I swear I am the worst Christmas shopper in the history of Earth.
Well, actually, I suppose I should redefine that. I don't mean that I can't physically go out and purchase items on a list. I do it three or four times a week at the grocery. I'm really quite good at that part.
What I mean is that I am the world's most unlucky shopper.
I have been out shopping twice, for three hours each time (in our town, that is a long, long time). In that amount of time, I managed to find only one item off of Sargon's 23-item list. Unbelievable, I tell you.
So I finally managed to find only one thing, the single most expensive item on the list. I gritted my teeth, purchased it, and left. On the way home, I decided to stop at one more place, just to see if I'd have better luck looking for this stuff used.
Immediately, I found the same item for half what I had just paid for it. I purchased it again, then went to return the original, which was an ordeal that deserves a post unto itself.
The line was only nine people long. It should not have taken more than fifteen minutes. I was there for forty-five (again, where I live, this is a long, long time) because the checker, who looked like an inbred cross between an Irishman and a hairless cat, vanished completely after serving only two people, and did not return.
It took so long that if you had left me on the floor with some rocks and a pile of birchbark, I could have started with fire and developed a working DVD player in the time it took him to return from masturbating the caged marmosets in the break room, or whatever he was doing. You could have left me with a log and two rocks, and I would have been able to create an X-box, enhanced with head-exploding alien technology. A geological age passed while I stood in line.
And for the duration of this uncalled-for delay, I was sandwiched between a leopard-print embellished woman with a very cute but very chatty four-year-old, and an aggressively tweed-clad businesswoman who smelled of menthol, leading me to believe that she might have some comminucable illness. I was also standing opposite a couple whose combined mass was roughly equal to that of a backhoe. The man had spider-veined calves as big as my waist. I swear I am not kidding. On a good day, I have a 29-inch waist. The woman looked like a fatter Shrek in a wig. And I do not exaggerate.
So I came home, poorer but no wiser, bearing with me the feeble fruits of my labors, which were promptly stuffed into a box and whored up with possibly the worst wrapping job I have ever done. A blind elf with no thumbs could do better.
All I have to say about this is that David Boreanaz had better take his shirt off in every single episode of the first season of Angel. Because otherwise, I shall be sorely put out.
In other semi-random news, I am trying like the devil to write porn, and not having much luck. Do you know how hard it is to write bondage porn for someone who isn't as into bondage as you are? Sargon is more into the fucking, and I consider the torture "foreplay" equal in interest to the actual sex.
Feh.
I'm also fighting the urge to write bondage-y Christmas carols.
Excuse me. I think I need to watch that episode of Buffy where Dru tortures Angel. Right now.
link