We’re evolving. We? Yes, me, and the impish naked tramp that lives in the crevice where sense and decorum should be. It pulls the greyish, fatty folds of brain around its shivering body and lies in wait, ready to foil my attempts at flirtation and social niceties. Why is it that every time I’m flirting with someone, my internal freak whispers to me: go on… put on a male, jamaican accent and boom out “Girl I’m gonna make you sweat, sweat until you can’t sweat no more”… we’re bored in here. That would be fun.. just do it. No, tramp. Stay low. He’ll see you! Stay fucking low or I’ll poke you in there with a cotton bud/q tip.. Come on… it wheedles… just bellow “Boom boom boom boom, I want you in my room.” And I keep him down, down, boy, until the rest of my brain struggles under a marinade of alcohol, then he stretches his legs and runs out, free to wreak havoc… And all I can do is slur “yessss… I agreee… It WOULD be hilarious if I became ironically racist for a while, that would amuse everyone, and never mind signaling the irony to anyone, it’s their fault if they don’t see it”
But we’re off the point. (Wait, there was a point? what is this? Fuck off. I’m outtie)
So I switched all my many aliases to Gmail. Rock on Gmail. I like you very much.
And it’s fucking awesome. All my email accounts converge on the one inbox. I have them nicely sorted with folders and labels and whatnot. Just made sure I wasn’t inadvertently sending everyone my real full name from my anonymous blog address… yes. Done. Fine.
But there is a task list! It knows me… it knows I have tasks that need doing. And I cross them off, satisfying my need to cross things off. And it looks so serious and professional, like these are tasks I will undertake. Deadlines and everything. Not some raggedy piece of scrap paper all balled up in my handbag, corners ripped off to homeless person filter the tips of my cigarettes. No childish scrawls unappetisingly proclaiming “get your clunge waxed”. I will obey the list. I already crossed off two things. Admittedly, one was “just eat lentils today” and the other was “get an appointment for a wax.” AWESOME.
And then I read over my list and I had written “find/buy a wench to raise my bike seat.” Hilarity. A wench would do just fine! But no. I need a wrench. My knees complain every time I mount that trusty metal steed and pedal along, hoping the hot pants distract the eyes of passersby long enough for them not to take note of my amateur, wobbly bicycling skills.
Oh I’m bored. What, how did you know? But I’m happy again. Tomorrow I will try again with hot barman. Because yesterday I was in a foul, nervous mood and I went down for a chicken sandwich… and hot barman was sitting down, on his break. He didn’t see me. I advanced into the bar, and had a fucking psychotic meltdown over whether I should say hi to him or because he was sitting down with a coffee, that wouldn’t be normal, or whether I should not say hi, but smile, but I couldn’t catch his eye, and then the little bastard upstairs started crooning, I know how to get his attention… whip out one boob. Whip it out so quick and with a deadpan face so he won’t even realise he’s seen it. Wait, that won’t work. He’ll know he’s seen it. But maybe he’ll doubt it. No shut up. So with this going on in my head I wound up walking past hot barman and AVOIDING his eyes and going to the bar, blushing bright red and ignoring him because I think he said a quick hi, and I just turned my back to him and ordered coffee from the other barman. What a fucking freak I am. And then I left, also clearly avoiding him on the way out. But maybe I inadvertently played hard to get? I mean I can’t tell. I blanked him, that’s kind of in the region of playing it cool? Isn’t it?
Tomorrow I’ll try again.
Boom boom boom boom, I want him in my room. We’ll spend the night together, together in my room. Because I want to make him sweat, sweat until he can’t sweat no more. Well.. not that much. Just a light coating of sweat. I don’t want a smelly hot barman. He’s so clean and nice looking. God imagine he ever saw this page, I’m literally stalking this guy through chicken sandwiches and having fucked up fantasies when all we have ever done is looked each other in the face a few times and said “hi” and “how are you” and once… “desperately horny like a fucking sex wolf.” But that was just once. Maybe he doesn’t remember.
Also, because this is a blog and I hate blogs precisely because of this shit I’m pulling right now, where you need to know back story to get all the subtle nuances of my mental sitch, I’m going to put links and stuff… no fuck that. Couldn’t be bothered. Maybe later. I’ll just apologize if someone has randomly come across this looking for elderly bestiality porn and stayed because they felt weird and unhappy but couldn’t look away (much like I feel about bestiality porn) then I am sorry you don’t know what the fuck is going on. But tough titties. If you’re bored enough, you’re bored enough.