How You Doin’ Blondie?


Jump-roping Son of Gun
April 27, 2008, 11:32 pm
Filed under: Children's rhymes, fun, games, youth | Tags:

Miss Susie had a tugboat
the tugboat had a bell
Miss Susie went to heaven
the tugboat went to
Hello operator please give me number nine
and if you disconnect me
I’ll kick you from behind
the refrigerator there was a piece of glass
Miss Susie sat upon it and cut her little
ask me no more questions
tell me no more lies
the boys are in the bathroom zipping up their
flies are in the meadow,
the bees are in the park
Miss Susie and her boyfriend
are kissing in the
D-A-R-K
D-A-R-K
D-A-R-K
[fast] DARK, DARK, DARK
dark is like a movie
a movie’s like a show
a show is like a TV screen
and that is all I know
I know I know my ma
I know I know my pa
I know I know my sister
with the 40 acre bra

Other people I’ve spoken to remember this as being a chant they used to skip rope to. In my day, this was just a way my girlfriends and I could get away with saying almost-bad words in front of our teacher without earning a phone call home. The “Miss Susie” rhyme was a particular favorite of mine because as a girl, I envisioned any woman note-worthy enough to earn her place in the annals of recess lore to be one BAMF, and I aspired to live up to the standards of being a Susie. 

 



Protected: I Did My Best, It Wasn’t Much
April 21, 2008, 3:12 pm
Filed under: Life, love, Pain, relationships, Sadness, sex | Tags: , , , ,

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Enter your password to view comments.


Pretty In Pink
April 19, 2008, 10:11 pm
Filed under: Anger, Life, Lonliness, Loss, love, Pain, Reality, relationships, Sadness, sex | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

I went to Barnes and Noble’s today, and for the first time in my life, I was disgusted by books. Disgusted. Everywhere I looked there was pink and white and cursive script and cutesy designs; “Blonde” and “Sex” and “Beautiful” and “Affair”; skin and breasts and lips.

It made me so sad. And so angry.

Every author was competing for the coveted distinction of being the most renegade, the most taboo.

“Oh, Oh, I know! I’ll write from the perspective of the ‘other woman’!”

“Well I’ll write from the perspective of the current wife, who approves of the ‘other woman’!”

“Well I’ll write from the perspective of a single woman who has anonymous sex with multiple partners!”

“Well I’ll be a kept woman”

“Well I’ll be a stripper!”

“I’ll be an prostitute!”

“I’ll be a porn star!”

And on and on and on and on until I just wanted to stand in the middle of the bookstore and cry. I wanted to sob, big heaving sobs that rack your whole body and make you gasp for breath and send torrents of wet, hot, salty, tears running down your cheeks and your lips and your neck.  I wanted to destroy; I wanted to tear each and every single book off of the shelf and rip the pages from their bindings and shred each word, each paragraph into little tiny pieces of confetti and then spit on it, I wanted to spit on all of it. I wanted to cause destruction and turmoil and pain. I wanted those authors to see the fruits of their labor – their lifeblood – desecrated and defiled. I wanted the authors to be hurt, I wanted them to feel violated. And I wanted to stand in the middle of the chaos and scream at them

“ENOUGH! THIS IS NOT A GAME! You take the one thing that brings me joy, you take my one escape, you take the only constant that I have to cling to and you USE it, you USE it and you CHEAPEN it. You CHEAPEN it in the name of your precious creative genius. You enclose yourself in your edgy little writer’s retreat and you say to yourself, ‘How can I be dramatic? How can I be poignant? How can I be utterly unique?’ And you start to brainstorm and the wheels start turning and you start thinking ‘outside the box’ and you start to think about what’s hot and what’s fascinating and how can you really grab someones attention, really force them to look at you and suddenly you think, ‘Sex!’  You think, ‘One of the most forbidden topics!’ You think ‘I’ll write about sex and sluts and prostitutes and adultery, but I’ll disguise all the turmoil and strife and make it cutesy and humorous and lovable, even! I’ll be a real insurrectionary!’

BUT YOU’RE NOT. Are you listening to me? YOU’RE NOT. You write about all these things that you know nothing about and you make your busty blonde protagonist sarcastic and witty and sometimes insightful and largely happy go lucky, as if sure, she knows she might not lead the most normal, average, lifestyle, but she’s happy because she knows what she’s doing isn’t wrong, it’s just different.

And then your book hits the shelves and people love it, they go crazy for it. You’re on Oprah and The View and Good Morning America and The Late Show and people are just in LOVE with your book! How could they not be? Just look at what you’ve done! You’ve made them fall head over heels for the whore of Babylon! You’ve made them root for Delilah! And you’ve done it all without making them feel anything unpleasant, no despair or defeat. You’ve romanticized everything. You’ve cleaned it up. You’ve made it digestible. You ‘left out’ the part where the ‘other’ woman cries herself to sleep at night over the unrequited love she has surrendered her soul to. You ‘forgot to mention’ the part where the prostitute falls in love with a regular guy but watches the relationship deteriorate before her eyes because she doesn’t enjoy making love to him, she’s not even sure what ‘making love’ is.

You make it acceptable and understandable. You rob it of it’s realism. You’re a liar, a thief, and a whore, in every sense of the word.”



Update From The Battlefront
April 18, 2008, 11:45 pm
Filed under: Demotivational Posters, Family, fun, Humor, Pictures, USMC | Tags: , , ,

More from Sergeant Hell-in-a-Helmet and his merry 2nd Battalion

 …decidedly pre-deployment.



Money hoes and clothes
April 18, 2008, 5:01 pm
Filed under: Greed, hip-hop, Media, money, Music, Rap Music, sex | Tags: , , , , ,

Of all my automobiles, my favorite is my Volvo. It’s a 2006 S40, passion red, and it’s essentially a crush-proof box. The first car I ever owned was a Volvo, and I really fell in love with them. It’s an odd car for your average twenty-something single to own, Volvo’s are notorious for being the ride of choice for the stodgy white-bread class…which is the bulk of it’s appeal. I hold a considerable amount of contempt for these kids today, with their flashy Acura’s and Lexus’ (Lexis’s? Lexuses?) who will spend $600 for a pair of sunglasses or $1000 for a pair of sneakers just because they bear the Louis Vuitton stamp. They acquire and acquire and acquire all theses THINGS, all these status symbols, and they don’t realize that they look like fools. They’re so ridiculous, they’re caricature’s of themselves.

So I enjoy my Volvo; I take great pride in the fact that my neighbor, the one with the musical career of dubious distinction, has never once expressed even a remote interest in my S40. I like that I’ve yet to see a Volvo cruise slowly down the street with base music reverberating from the speakers and chrome monstrosities affixed to the wheel-wells. But perhaps the key ingredient to my Volvo enthusiasm has been the fact that never, not once, have I ever heard a Volvo be mentioned in any capacity in a rap song.

Until today.

I turned on the radio in my car today in time to catch the following line:

“…pimpin hoes that drive Volvos and Rodeos…”

I later identified the song as “Niggas” by the Notorious B.I.G.:

“To all my Brooklyn ‘Niggas!! (Niggas!!)’
To all my Uptown ‘Niggas!! (Niggas!!)’
To all my Bronx ‘Niggas!! (Niggas!!)’
To all my Queensbridge ‘Niggas!! (Niggas!!)’
‘Nigga nigga nigga..’

Back up chump, you know Biggie Smalls rips it quick
and kicks it quick, you know how black niggaz get
with the hoods fatigues with the boots with trees
Smokin weed, flippin ki’s, makin crazy G’s
Hittin buckshots at niggaz that open spots
on the avenue, take my loot, and I’m baggin you
Pimpin hoes that drive Volvo’s and Rodeos
Flash the roll, make her wet, in her pantyhose
Damn, a nigga style is unorthodox
Grip the glock, when I walk down the crowded blocks
Just in case a nigga wanna act out
I just black out, and blow they motherfuckin back out
That’s a real nigga for ya

[Chorus]

When we smoke spliffs, we pack four-fifths
just in case dread wanna riff
He get a free lift to the cemetary, rough very
Not your ordinary, we watch you get buried
That’s a real nigga for ya
Get mad do a quarter flip the script, and rip your lawyer
Spit at the D.A., cause fuck what she say
She don’t give a fuck about your ass anyway
Up North found first stop for the town
of fist-skill, where the hand skills are real ill
You’ll be a super Hoover doo-doo stain remover
Ha hahhh, yo G, pass the ruler

[Chorus 2X]

Money hoes and clothes
Blunt smoke comin out the nose, is all a nigga knows
Flippin on foes, puttin tags on toes
Watchin the stash grow, clockin the cashflow
The neighborhood gravedigga
Gettin paid so much, all the bitches wanna see a nigga
I guess they figure I’m paid, I wanna get laid
or since I got loot I wanna knock boots
I’d rather beat my dick than trick
and if she don’t suck then we don’t fuck
I’d rather make a buck, drive a fat-ass truck
Grab the 9, two clips, and run amuck
Yes, flex at the two or three Benzes
I wreck shit, what the fuck you expected?
A fly guy? Well fuck it, I’m the high guy
from Bed-Stuy, puttin the swellin on your eye
and your nose even, when I choke ya you stop breathin
And when Jake come, I’m leavin!”

I am indescribably depressed.



Thug Life Carpool
April 16, 2008, 4:46 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: ,

My brother must be a really efficient terrorist fighting machine because it seems like he spends the bulk of his deployment on the Internet, sending me things he and his fellow soldiers have found to be hilarious.

And to be honest, sometimes they make me chuckle too.



Protected: Flying Solo
April 16, 2008, 1:50 am
Filed under: lust, Men, relationships, sex | Tags: , , ,

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Enter your password to view comments.


Cheers
April 15, 2008, 10:53 pm
Filed under: Life, love, Men, relationships | Tags: , , , ,

There’s this bar I go to, where no body knows my name. Except for Mike, the guy that owns the place. Mike knows me, and my name, and he also knows that I mostly just want to be left alone. Mike sort of runs interference for me, serves as a “cock block”, if you will. He’s missing a few teeth and will never be accused of razor sharp wit but he’s an excellent conversationalist (he knows when to just be quiet), and he’s instinctively protective of me…have mercy on the poor guy who tries to send a drink or cheesy pick-up line my way.

I hate messing up a kitchen and dirtying dishes for one person, and I always feel like the world’s biggest loser when I realize I’m standing in front of a free-range oven fretting over the right temperature for a dish I’m whipping up for Cody…so I went to the bar for dinner tonight. The food there is atrocious, that fact really isn’t debatable. They even manage to mess up french fries, which one would assume to be a pretty fail-proof food. But I ordered a burger (really, really well done) and fries anyway and fell into my usual routine of alternating between staring into the brown glass of my beer bottle and staring at whatever game’s playing on the plasma screen. I was in the middle of trying to figure out what my approximate beer to buzz ratio was when Mike surprised me by cracking open a beer for himself and sitting next to me at the bar. I thought maybe he was just taking a break or something, but he swiveled to face me and I was surprised to find a look of concern on his face. It was a look of genuine concern too, the likes of which I can honestly say I’ve only ever witnessed once in this lifetime, and even then it was fleeting. So I straightened up a little and said, “What’s up, Mike?” He sighed a little bit, and I remember what he said next very, very clearly;

“Suzanne, my heart hurts a little bit for you, honey. You’re so young and so pretty, but your so damn lethal, darlin. I know we joke around and call you the Lone Ranger, but you can’t be like that forever. The way you sit here sometimes, if you didn’t look the way you do, I’d swear you were a 54 year old man with three ex-wives and alimony payments that are slowly killing him. At least you don’t smoke,” He offered one of those wry laughs and then took a swig from his beer. I really did not know what to say in response, and we just kind of sat there in silence for a few seconds while he looked into his beer bottle. Then he looked over at me again and continued;

“Look, sweetheart, just humor an old man, ok? All I want you to know is this: you gotta let something or someone in, you have to. No body can get through this shit alone, and it’ll just kill you if you try. I’m talking about finding a husband, or something. I know I come from a different generation where women didn’t do as much by themselves as they do now, but that’s not the point. I see you come roaring in here with a different set of wheels every week, I know you’ve done pretty damn good for yourself by yourself, but a person can’t be by themselves forever. And especially a sweetheart like you. Honey, you’re one tough cookie, but one of these days, you’re gonna find someone whose gonna be able to take what you dish out, and give a lot back. I just want you to be prepared, is all, because he’s out there. And it’s going to be a Battle Royal when he finally comes waltzing in.” He tipped his bottle towards mine in punctuation and then got up to tend the bar again.   

I left before my food came because Dr.Phil moments make me feel awkward. I’ve tried to fight it, but I always feel kind of uncomfortable when someone opens up like that. It’s not what he said that put me off, I’ve been playing the same fantasy over and over in my head ever since I hit puberty and I started reading those absurdly worded romance novels…I’ve always dreamt of finding that guy who thinks he’s as bad ass as I think I am, and we meet and we just melt each other and we live sometimes happily, sometimes angrily, but always together, forever and blah blah blah all that Lifetime movie bullshit. I want it, I do, I really do, but it’s just kind of weird when the guy who serves you beer and sometimes tells you off-color jokes articulates it to you.

The only reason I didn’t tell him to shut the fuck up is because 1.) I like his bar and 2.) I like him.

And 3.) I don’t know of any other bars I can go to and not run the risk of getting hit on by some Lamborghini-driving stud who fancies his genitals dipped in platinum.

…but seriously? “Battle Royal”? Who does he think is coming to claim me? Hacksaw Jim Duggan?



Uncle Sam Needs Somebody, Anybody Else
April 15, 2008, 4:33 pm
Filed under: Current Affairs, Family, fear, Life, love, thoughts | Tags: , , ,

Just got a phone call; my youngest brother, Matthew, he’s expressed his desire to attend the Virginia Military Institute, post-high school. Presumably with the intent of a career with the US Armed Forces.

I couldn’t be prouder, or more afraid.

But honestly, both of them? Really? What is this, a conspiracy?



So, To Summarize Thus Far…
April 14, 2008, 9:45 pm
Filed under: Life, love, lust, Men, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , , , ,

“Somewhere, sometime, somehow, you lose something or see something lost.

If you are lucky, it was when you were young. If you are lucky, you saw your parents divorced. If you are lucky, your high school girlfriend died in a car crash. If you are lucky, you saw your little sister lose the use of her legs because your family couldn’t afford the right health care.

If you are unlucky, it will happen when you’re older. If you are unlucky, you will see your son lose his place at the college of his choice to a man richer then you, rich enough to donate some new lab equipment. If you are unlucky, your wife of thirty-seven years will develop bipolar disorder and have to be hospitalized after you come home from work and find she has opened her wrists with an electric meat carver. If you are unlucky, you will lose your job after twenty-two years of service and be too old to find another.

If you are unlucky, you will realize too late that the way you thought the world worked was just an illusion. If you are unlucky, you will become afraid too late.

But if you are lucky, you will become afraid when you are young, afraid of the unexpected changing of your life for the worse and not having enough power to set things back the way you wanted them to be.

And then, if you are lucky, you will pursue power from that day forth. You will lead armies into Gaul, you will take on a colony in a new world, you will acquire money, you will only maintain relationships where you have the upper hand, only stay in jobs that can eventually lead to you being the one in charge. And you will do this because if you are lucky, you will know that power means you don’t have to be afraid. Power means you can do what you want when you want to. Power means you can have what you want when you want it.

If you are lucky, you will do this because you will know it is really Power that is worth any sacrifice, that it is really Power without which you can’t live, that it is really Power without which you can only eat and breathe and sleep and sometimes not even that. You will do this because if you are lucky you will know that when we say we’d die for Liberty we’re really saying we’d die for Power.

Except that in the pursuit of Power one of the things you will have to sacrifice will be the ability to enjoy the thing you lost or saw lost.

So even if you reach that point where you aren’t afraid anymore, that point where you can relax, that point where you are free, that point you never reach, even if you reach that point, you will realize that you weren’t so lucky after all.”

Kelman, Nic. Girls. Boston: Little Brown. 2003.



For Those About To Rock…
April 14, 2008, 4:04 pm
Filed under: Heavy Metal, Humor, Picture, Random, youth | Tags: , ,

A friend of my brother’s sent this to him today, which he forwarded to me. Were the thing on the far left a platinum blonde, it’d look just like Andrew did, before boot camp.

 



A Rose By Any Other Name…
April 14, 2008, 12:19 am
Filed under: Life, Men, Reflections, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , ,

Went to a strip club with my friend the other day, and when I stepped outside for some fresh air, I noticed some prick had parked his Dodge Viper right in front, in the fire lane. He wasn’t anywhere in sight, and obviously thought his car was too precious to park in the spaces reserved for us mere mortals. So I just kind of stood there and stared at the car, fuming silently. My friend was standing next to me, having a cigarette, and is apparently clairvoyant because he reached over and rubbed my shoulder while saying, “Calm down baby, just relax, don’t say anything,” (obviously his wife has made him sit through Steel Magnolias, he knows how Southern girls are). I quelled the urge to point out that the Viper parked by the curb wasn’t worth as much as any of my automobiles, and I turned to walk back inside. My path was immediately blocked, however, by a man striding brusquely through the doors wearing an outfit he purposely bought a size too small so as to showcase his physique. I took one look at the guy, and his tribal arm band tattoo, and I leaned in and whispered in my friend’s ear, “All the tea in China, that’s his Viper.” My friend rolled his eyes, kissed my mouth gently, and then shushed me; but we both turned to watch where this guy went. Sure as shootin’, Slab Bulkhead swaggered right on down to that Viper and threw a pack of cigarettes through the open sunroof. I groaned loudly and my friend pinched my ass and said “Shhh baby, watch this.” As Butch Deadlift is making his way back into the club, my friend does one of those cool, aloof, guy-nods in the direction of the Viper and says “That your ride, man?” (A  question which elicited the mother of  all eye-rolls from me, which went largely unnoticed as Splint Chesthair had obviously already made the incorrect assumption that I was one of the dancers and thus unworthy of legitimate conversation). Stump Beefknob then stopped, and without any hesitation or trepidation at all, of any kind whatsoever, replied, “Nah man, that’s my mom’s. I drive an XJ-8.”

Then he went back inside.

I waited for my friend to finish his cigarette and then we followed suit. Later in the evening, we got to talking about Dirk Hardpeck and I realized my initial irritation had been replaced with a sort of reluctant respect. The guy might have been a douche-bag, but he had the stones to admit his was driving his mother’s car. I don’t know many guys whose precious ego could sustain that kind of blow – and Gristle McThornbody made the omission in such a nonchalant, almost dismissive manner.

As obnoxious to the core as I’m sure he is; big ups to Blast Thickneck for being a momma’s boy and owning it. You go on now and do your thing, Brick Steelflex.



Bill Has An Interesting Way of Indexing Things
April 12, 2008, 4:35 pm
Filed under: advice, Humor, Query, sex | Tags: , , ,

Found it. Searched “how do i make myself cum harder” using Windows LiveSearch. My blog is returned as a result on the second page. I’m a little surprised by that, I was expecting to be more like a 5th or 6th page result. Am I really of second-page relevancy to “how do i make myself cum harder”?

Well, it’s certainly funnier then “define whore”, but definetly lacking the dramtic irony.

And since I’ve obviously been given some type of authority on the subject, allow me to weigh in: stroke harder, kid.



My Kingdom For Which Search Engine This Guy Used
April 12, 2008, 4:19 pm
Filed under: Humor, lust, Query, sex | Tags: , , ,

I shit you not, this inquiry returned my blog:

“how do i make myself cum harder”

Seriously ya’ll, my kingdom.



Barbie Strong
April 11, 2008, 9:34 pm
Filed under: Life | Tags: , ,

I strolled into his office today looking for all the world like Daisy Duke herself (minus the brunette coiffure, of course). I’m fairly sure he thought I’d entered the wrong door by mistake, his little hole in the wall is shoved in between Hollywood Tan and Le Nails. Nonetheless, he was very professional and only gave me a head-to-toe appraisal (with brief but noticeable pauses at my breasts) four times. After he shook my hand he guided me to a seat opposite his Office Max desk and asked how he could help me. I told him I wanted to know if there was a place for me in the U.S. Armed Forces and to his tremendous credit, he did not immediately reply with “Hell yeah, on my lap.” He did, however, look more then a little incredulous and I had to repeat myself before he shuffled some papers around and asked, “Uh, well, are you at least 18 years of age?” I snorted and almost replied with “Honey, I’ve been 18 since I was 14,” but instead opted for a more subdued “Yes.” He asked me a few more questions, very basic things really, but my favorite part of the interview came when he asked if  I’d like to take advantage of the Army’s offer to send me to school, free of charge. I replied that no, in fact, I already hold a degree in Applied Mathematics, but I would be interested in any loan forgiveness programs (he regretfully informed me that unfortunately, the University of Pennsylvania will bleed me dry until the day I shuffle off this mortal coil, and there’s not much he can do about it).

I didn’t sign anything (much to his disappointment), but I’m one step closer. 

I’ll bet you I actually sleep through the night, tonight. 



The Proverbial Question
April 11, 2008, 2:10 pm
Filed under: Life, love, Questions, Reality, Reflections, thoughts

How do you throw in the towel in a battle with yourself? This isn’t a rhetorical question, I’m not waxing poetic – I genuinely do not know the answer to this question.

Do you sell all your possessions? Do you give the green light to that over-zealous Realtor whose been circling overhead ever since you had that property appraisal done?

Do you give your brother perhaps the greatest gift he’ll ever receive, the black 2007 Chevrolet Corvette Z06 some guy you vaguely remember bequeathed to you in his will? Do you lie when he asks where you got it from? Do you have it garaged until he comes back from Iraq?

Do you sell your G-Class to that hip-hop star down the street who really has no apparent source of income aside from polishing his neck jewelry, but has been lavishing praise upon your monstrosity of an SUV ever since you got it?

Do you finally buy that Ducati Supersport 1000DS you’ve been lusting after for years but never quite had the balls to buy? Do you buy a sidecar for your 80lb best friend/dog? Does the sidecar detract from the coolness of the Ducati? Do you even care at this point?

Do you sell, sell, sell, like it’s a fucking swap meet because the sight of all these THINGS just makes you fucking sick?

What do you do with all the money? Do you buy a Kevlar blanket and new body armor for every single last fucking soldier in your brother’s unit? Do you throw money hand over fist at the non-profit organization, Soldiers’ Angels, you’ve been a member of ever since that fucking horrible day your brother came home with that jar head haircut? Do cry at night because you miss your brother so, so much, and you love him so, so much and you feel like the most selfish, spoiled whore in the world for sleeping on silk sheets while he’s picking sand out of his teeth and dodging mortar attacks?

Do you toy with the idea of enlisting yourself? What would you do with Cody? Who would take care of him? What about those neighbors of yours, the elderly couple who bake things for him? You think they’d keep him while you’re gone?

What if you die? Will it be worth it? Will it mean you’ve at least done something, stood for something, been something other then a fucking wealthy, pretty, waste of space?

Are all these questions things that you’ve very seriously considered? Very, very seriously considered? Are you just about ready to throw in the towel?

Yes, yes you are.



Call Me Reverend Dimmesdale

It makes me slightly ill when I hear about the sexual affairs of married people. The cheating, the excuses, the understandings. It really does make me physically sick. And who am I to react like that? Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, right? Isn’t my current boyfriend married and the father of sweet little toddler? Don’t I rationalize it away by saying to myself, “It’s different, they have an understanding?” Don’t I judge others by their actions but myself by my intentions?

So why does it plunge me into such a state of utter despair to bear witness to the infidelity of others?

Because I still have a little bit of hope, that’s why. As jaded, hateful, and bitter as I am, there’s still a little tiny part of me that believes in the traditional family unit, wants the traditional family unit. There’s a part of me that dreams about finding a nice, decent, hard-working, down-to-earth, blue collar guy who thinks the sun rises and sets on me; of finding a man who sees me as the most beautiful woman in the world, and the woman he wants to mother his future children. There’s a part of me that cries sometimes, lamenting the loss of the sacred union and a love that weathers storms and the put-yourself-first mentality society promotes. There’s also a part that hates myself, really and truly hates myself, for the life I’ve made.

I hate you, husband who “works late”; I hate you, housewife with the “personal trainer”; I hate you, unhappily married man or woman, who thinks your time is better spent fulfilling your own desires then working on repairing and stabilizing the relationship, the commitment you’ve already made; I hate you so much it makes me angry, angry and sick to the point of vomiting.

But I hate myself even more.



It’s The Little Things, Really

 



So I’m channeling an adolescent male’s sense of humor, sue me
April 5, 2008, 9:27 pm
Filed under: Entertainment, fun, Life, lust, Men, Reflections, sex | Tags: , ,

 



I Really Don’t Like The Fit Of This Shoe…

Harken back, if ye will, to the days of old when I was kind of half-assed chasing my single neighbor, S…it turns out, things might not have been as dead as I thought they were. I was at the local dive bar with another guy, and we were canoodling (does that word sounds as stupid as I think it does?), and who should walk in and sit on the other side of the bar, but S. himself. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, so I turned to wave or something, but he wouldn’t look up or acknowledge me. So I figured ok, cool, guess I “didn’t see him”. So my guy and I carry on, but I can feel S. just boring holes into me with his stare. Eventually we left, and for some inexplicable reason, I felt like I’d done something really underhanded to S…I dismissed the feeling, until today. Saw S. three times today, in the span of about an hour. I waved and tried to make eye contact all 3 times, he ignored me. The second time I saw him, he was driving past my house while I was sitting on the porch. He waved at the neighbor walking past on the sidewalk, but he didn’t wave at me. He didn’t even turn his head in my direction. The third time I saw him, he was less then 20 yards away from me, watching his dog urinate on a tree. I waved, but he “didn’t see me”. He ignored me. Completely.

Fuck. I’m being taught a lesson.

I feel like an asshole.