Tiny prepares for mutiny on The Bounty.
Chronic remorse, all the moralists are agreed, is a most undesirable sentiment.
It'd be lovely if I could take Huxley's words to heart, but here I am. End of the week, and the only thing I don't regret is announcing a poker game with copious amounts of flowing alcohol and scarce clothing. (Although honestly, who would? Well, other than the rogue nun floating around somewhere in this network and the occasional Bible thumper that seems to surface, but even that crabby grandmother seems to like to let her rollers down every once in a while.) Maybe the chagrin's rooted in the fact that as I'm writing this, I'm preparing to meet a stranger in my fuck me underwear. And the thing is? Who knows if he'll even appreciate fuck me underwear! Do guys even understand the importance of garter belts and bras that manage to make anyone look like they have Elizabethan tits? Maybe it's the men Norma's attracted to fetching for me, but none of them have never managed to figure out that you're supposed to take off the thigh-high stocking before you go to town. Whatever. Most of them are horny businessmen with just-preggo wives, so they're pretty much about to burst by the time I manage to take off my panties anyway. Try to get the hole any more naked and it's one used condom and five minutes of useless foreplay. (Wait! Every minute of foreplay with these guys is useless!)
You know, if Norma actually had an inkling as to the type of guy she manages to pick up for me at the corner bistro, I think she'd weep into her coverlet bitterly and ask for forgiveness from Jesus or somesuch. Or (even worse) maybe she knows exactly what she's doing. If that's the case, Norma Jean's officially a sicker fuck than I ever gave her credit for. What a crafty bitch!
In other news, here's the official Big Fucking List of Things I Shouldn't Have Done This Week:
Fuck, I smell the curling iron. NOTE: Big Fucking List might have to become a tradition, at any rate; scribbling it out was almost -- dare I say? -- cathardic.
Hey, Mads (???) -- sorry to bother you, but after our earlier discussion, I just wanted to double check and see if I needed reservations in case I ditch? Don't want to show up at the doorstep at either of your eateries only to find out that I'm being blocked from Sri Lankan dining paradise because I didn't call ahead.
[added later, after a lull of a few minutes courtesy of vanity]
So, if you're not taking old hag Norma out on the bike any time soon, I'll have to march down to the bar. Obviously. On Saturday, most likely. Mostly because it Well, you s I have shit for you and stuff is why I'm giving heads-up, just so you know, because fuc. Yeah.
It'd be lovely if I could take Huxley's words to heart, but here I am. End of the week, and the only thing I don't regret is announcing a poker game with copious amounts of flowing alcohol and scarce clothing. (Although honestly, who would? Well, other than the rogue nun floating around somewhere in this network and the occasional Bible thumper that seems to surface, but even that crabby grandmother seems to like to let her rollers down every once in a while.) Maybe the chagrin's rooted in the fact that as I'm writing this, I'm preparing to meet a stranger in my fuck me underwear. And the thing is? Who knows if he'll even appreciate fuck me underwear! Do guys even understand the importance of garter belts and bras that manage to make anyone look like they have Elizabethan tits? Maybe it's the men Norma's attracted to fetching for me, but none of them have never managed to figure out that you're supposed to take off the thigh-high stocking before you go to town. Whatever. Most of them are horny businessmen with just-preggo wives, so they're pretty much about to burst by the time I manage to take off my panties anyway. Try to get the hole any more naked and it's one used condom and five minutes of useless foreplay. (Wait! Every minute of foreplay with these guys is useless!)
You know, if Norma actually had an inkling as to the type of guy she manages to pick up for me at the corner bistro, I think she'd weep into her coverlet bitterly and ask for forgiveness from Jesus or somesuch. Or (even worse) maybe she knows exactly what she's doing. If that's the case, Norma Jean's officially a sicker fuck than I ever gave her credit for. What a crafty bitch!
In other news, here's the official Big Fucking List of Things I Shouldn't Have Done This Week:
- allow Katie Santos to convince me to touch Fun Fur
- take that stupid PETA test (Kit the Cat my ass.)
- put tape on the cats' feet and stand them in front of Norma
- mention the word "naturally grown catnip" to that infernal woman
- not call Yost and not shoot the shit/thank (REMEDY THIS WEEKEND)
- decide that 17 April is, indeed, Zero Hour
- look at File: Parental period
Fuck, I smell the curling iron. NOTE: Big Fucking List might have to become a tradition, at any rate; scribbling it out was almost -- dare I say? -- cathardic.
Hey, Mads (???) -- sorry to bother you, but after our earlier discussion, I just wanted to double check and see if I needed reservations in case I ditch? Don't want to show up at the doorstep at either of your eateries only to find out that I'm being blocked from Sri Lankan dining paradise because I didn't call ahead.
[added later, after a lull of a few minutes courtesy of vanity]
So, if you're not taking old hag Norma out on the bike any time soon, I'll have to march down to the bar. Obviously. On Saturday, most likely. Mostly because it Well, you s I have shit for you and stuff is why I'm giving heads-up, just so you know, because fuc. Yeah.