sometimes we'll go a week without...and when we do...we do not discuss

sometimes we'll go a week without
weeks. like, a few weeks. this is very difficult for me since i am entering my prime. your 'low drive' excuse is tired because i'm quite certain you toss off once a day. your 'catholic guilt' excuse is also tired. those two in that list of excuses are accompanied by the 'i saw my mom get hit' excuse and the 'i don't want you to think i see you as a sex object' excuse. i'm tired of all of them because being an object isn't a bad thing every once in a while. being slapped can be fun. i can get with that. also, i am not your mom. the worst on that list is the one where you say that the sex is not the most important thing in a relationship. don't you go making me feel like an addict. don't you dare. i don't go around calling you a fag because you aren't consistently fucking me, now do i? no. sometimes we'll go a week or three without.
and when we do
you don't look at me. ever. you only like to fuck me from behind. make no mistake, i do like it that way, but once in a while it's nice to feel the weight of you on top of me. you don't pull my hair hard enough. it's like you only do it to hold on and it's only for a minute. leverage. you don't say dirty things to me. you don't say anything actually. you don't make a sound. nothing. it's quiet. not peaceful. awkward, almost. it'd be nice to hear just a little grunt to let me know you're even ok with how far down my throat your dick is creeping. speaking of, your face hasn't been down near my spot in i don't know how long. i can count the number of times it has been in two years, on one hand. it seems as though you're totally put off by me. by sex. by my sex. remember that one time i pounced on you wearing only a tank & boyshorts? and you told me to get off of you because we had to go? because you had work to do? ouch. and that's just one example. and when we do it's just ok.
we do not discuss
fantasies. past experiences. there is no giggling at embarrassing old sex stories. we do not share. i'm not ashamed or afraid. i'm interested in hearing what you've done, what you want to do, what you won't do. i'm open to anything and that's not just because the times we finally do are few and far between. like i'm desperate. for affection and sex and connecting. because of all of this, it's like my ego has been stomped on by optimus prime. i've stopped asking for it. i've stopped part of who i am because no ego can recover from being stomped on by optimus prime. we do not discuss because i fear that you will resent it. the catch 22 is that i am beginning to resent that we don't. we do not discuss.

distraction

I don't think I'm going to go for that run, after all. It was one of those things that totally runs through your mind and once you say it out loud you're like "Wow me, that would probably end badly. Perhaps you would be better off sitting around playing Klondike on your iPod while you listen to something emo. You know you have something emo on your iPod, you douchebag. Oh and eat a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos once in a while too, because you're totally depriving yourself, asshole." Maybe you're not as hard on yourself as I am and that's great. I eat a lot of tuna. That is not a euphemism for something else. I also eat a lot of beets. I have very low cholesterol so there's that! Anyway, may all your guilt shoe purchases work out for you. I'm afraid to say I have sort of similar type guilt but in my version I bought a pair by a dicktress hotel tycoon's daughter. They are so high I also fear for my life since I'll be drunk when I wear them. Maybe a boob will pop out. Fingers crossed!

3 short notes

I have made some (sometimes creative) awesomeness with leftovers. Today is the very last of it...brown rice. I am so asian. I ate it with hot dogs. That might negate the asian part, but it's like heaven to me. I'm only asian'ish.

I was day drunk in SF this past Saturday. It resulted in me drunk shopping. That resulted in me drunk spending a lot of money on a dress. My intention is to drunk wear that dress to a giant corporate Vegas themed Christmas party this coming Saturday. I'm hoping the final drunk result is me getting cock-slapped for looking so gorgeously slutty. I need shoes.

I had a dream that I was (long story short) looking for someone to go down on me. I was like a feign, racing around a big space needle type building in search of a volunteer to get all oral-mania on my girlparts. Every time I'm dreaming of something sexual and trying to "plan" it out (for whatever reason) it doesn't end up happening for me. I need to learn how to just go with it in my dreams, let go, let the filthy gas station attendant go at it with the same kind of fervor that I have to get it. I'm not sure what my subconscious problem is but it's annoying. And blue-ballish.

triste

Wow. Haven't been here in a while. It's been so long I didn't even remember my password. I wonder if anyone will even notice I stopped in.

That's ok, I want to say somethings about someone and those somethings are some of those things you don't usually talk about in public but rather you keep them in your own head because they those things/decisions that if you talk about out loud then you realize how insane they actually are. And you know it's insane but your mind has a funny way about it, taking something so crazy and actually convincing itself that it's an awesome idea. Weird. Maybe not so weird.

Maybe I won't talk about it at all.

There is this savage that started coming around back in ancient times, like BC. The best and the worst kind of savage that only brings out the premium in you. And no matter how hard you say you try to run from this savage, you know that you're really not trying to run. You're secretly sitting there out in the open, waiting for this savage to pounce on you. Years and years of this silly savage and mouse game go on and you can't/don't want to shake the savage but you do. No you don't. Yes, you do. If you knew what was best for you, you would. But you don't. Does it even matter when you don't speak the same language? It doesn't, really.

Now what? Now you're older and the savage is older. Now you think maybe you finally stopped pretending to run because running makes you tired and pretending to run is even worse on your thighs. Now it's final. Finality has begun to set in. But that savage would like one more run at it. For old times sake. For fun. For shits & giggles. For the fuck of it. Before finality really really sets in. Because you can't run to that state. Because you can't pretend to run from so far away. Nobody would be around to pretend not to see you pretending to run.

The one thing you know for certain is that it would be the run of your fucking life.

WTF CanadaFace, Vadge, Danskin? Where the eff my grammas at?
Everyone must be getting laid.
I hate you all.





Just kidding.

remember...when you eat, you're a vacuum with tits.

2 more days and Ima little bit closer and a little bit further away. I don't have any plans but I took the day off anyway. And the next day after that, too. 2 more days until Ima off for 2 extra days and I probably won't even masturbate once in those 4 days. Maybe it's because Imaddicted to scrabbulous. Maybe it's because Ima hoping Ima getting laid so Ima saving up. Sometimes I pretend my hair is a mustache on my own face. Sometimes I hate myself for always hating reality TV but finding out I love Project Runway. I tried to love ANTM but I think it made me stupid. I cleaned out my storage this weekend and sold all my ex' crap that he refused to pick up-on craigslist, for example, I sold a box of playboymags for $25 to some asian business man in a very expensive suit. Ima not too hot on asian mens but Ima gonna admit that while he looked through the box of mags I might have had a flash in my head that I fucked him in the storage. It's dusty in there, the storage. While we fucked, I flipped through an issue with Shannon Do-whore-ty on the cover then I blew him and he came on my tits.

Sorry Carlos, I meant to save those mags for you.

and her cat sits with his tail out so his anus touches everything

Hey why don't you stop crying for a minute and let me explain myself.

I don't have an explanation, I don't even care.

Sometimes I forget to even read blogs and I actually do care about that because after reading some fucking shitty writing lately, I realize that XTbagX is a genius and if I'm not reading her blog every day then I'm a total fag.

Someone I call Phenomenal here at work (because she says to 'have a phenomenal day' on her voicemail) asked if I wanted to try some of her tea so I says "yeah sure, what flavor?" and she said, "comforting".
wtf?
I wonder if they have "ejaculating".
Then someone I call Christie Black (I think this nickname is pretty obvious here) asked if I wanted her banana because it was too ugly for her to eat. I told her she was a shallow bitch and I took her banana anyway and ate it like you'd hope to catch me eating it.

Anyway, everything is mostly the same except I have to spend more time designing things on the computers and less time not doing that. I raked it in with my own special brand of Valentine cards and art that now hangs on other peoples walls-people who could give a shit about the artist but just want to say they have local art on their wall.

Anyway stop fucking crying before I fucking give you something to fucking cry about.
Wow, THAT'S love.

it's either that or a cockfight

Awesome is accidentally dropping your last tampon into the toilet before you get to tampon fuck yourself.

Ladies, can I get a WHAT WHAT?
Fellas, can I get you to not puke on my shoes?

ktksbye.

london you're a lady

Sometimes I wonder if everyone else jills off as much as I do. I mean I have a pretty good idea that somextxone does but sometimes think I'm friggin amazing for pulling out so many of those puppies in one sitting. Or maybe that's not even a lot what the fuck do I know? Or maybe I'm totally underestimating myself because I honestly don't count how many times I get there, I just go. One then wait about a minute then again, then wait another minute then again, next thing I know I'm sweating more than I did when I ran my last marathon and my legs are fucking killing me...like that crease where my legs meet my hips is so stiff and the pain is so ridiculous that I have a hard time straightening them back out. So yeah I'd say I go 25 times at the least, 50 times tops and I'm sure it has a lot to do with the fact that I'm single but I still remember doing this shit a lot even when I had a live in. I've gotta say it's really pretty addicting because I'll plan on getting it on with myself but I'll say 'self, first you must read 20 pages in this book you're reading and THEN you can handle your biznaz' but then I'll be reading and I'll be like 'dude, Phillip K Dick is a fucking awesome writer! Dick! Time to get off and then I can't even think about reading anymore because I'm consumed with dick! Shit dude. Yeah so if you could clue me in on yours I'll be totally stoked. This is all with the monarch, in case you were wondering (and I'm sure you were), nothing going in, this is all surface work we're talking about here. The best thing about being single is being able to fall asleep in the middle of my very awesome bed with my head floating in the middle of all 4 feathery pillows and my vibrator resting quietly against my inner thigh. The worst thing about being single is that all of that happens but there usually isn't any jizz on my chin or tits or on my person in general.

Enough about me, where have I been for the past couple of months anyway? Not working and getting my head shrunk, that's where. Now the holidays are over and I'm back to work and I have a lemon sized head. Weird, right? I mostly missed you.

it's like shitting - just let it go right on the couch

Ok so I had this dream the other night that I was dating Damien Rice. I don't know where or how we met but all of a sudden he was sweet on me and me him and we were this out of nowhere couple complete with me being included in all of his TV interviews. He was promoting his 9 album and I'd sit there next to him all cute, constantly looking back and forth between him and whoever was interviewing us (Larry King, once) and smiling and laughing and he'd put his hand on my leg and squeeze it when he was embarrassed . Sometimes I'd answer questions, but they were always about him like "What do you guys watch on TV?" and to that I replied "We watch Curb Your Enthusiasm but I'm pretty sure he only watches it for me and that he hates Larry David. The big story wasn't his new album though, it was the fact that Damien was dating a non Hollywood/music industry type like me. He kept calling me "a regular" and when asked how he felt about that he'd say that it was totally fucking awesome dating "a normal" like me except he didn't say 'totally fucking awesome'-instead he'd use some obscure Irish antidote that nobody understood, not even me. He'd say we do all the things "the normals" do like lick our fingers after we eat Doritos and hike Mt. Tam and fuck in the shower. Of course I would blush when he'd say the word 'fuck' but only because we did fuck in the shower. Maybe it's because he liked to immediately wash "the normal" pussay off of him, idunno. And none of that bothered me because I knew he was a rebound for me anyway and I knew that he'd soon break things off all dramatical-like so he could go off and date a younger blonde chic with no ass. Yeah, that was all fine with me because I had my eye on Harry Osborne and Harry is local and spending weekends in Ireland was often tiring. Plus Harry is more emotionally stable than Damien anyway so what the hell, right?

I love it when Richelle has the nerve to call me a whore and to keep my legs closed.