Drifting thoughts of a snowflake

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

It’s hard to be hussy out of ideas

I wasn’t planning on writing this week. I’m hard at work studying for the last part of my CPA exam and feeling all smart and all. Well, I’m hoping I’m smart enough. I’m ready for this chapter of my life to pass me buy.

It’s beautiful in Austin. I wish you were here. All of you. I wish my backyard was in its old condition, and we were all here telling these stories face to face while we drank and watched the fire flies drift up at sunset.

Right now I’m finding it hard to excuse where I am. I refuse to apologize for where I am, but yet some people keep asking for an excuse. I don’t have one. I don’t need one. I deserve this time to myself. I deserve to get my shit in order and not explain to you why it is that I’m a basket case at times and a rock star at others. It’s who I am. I owe you nothing. So take your nothing, if that’s what you want. Wrap it up like a baby in a soft flannel blanket and sing it a sad song. If that’s what you need to do.

Me? I’ll still be me. I’m starting to look at the world in a different light. I’m changing and it’s a good feeling. I can see today that my actions impact the world around me. It’s more than just bringing in people who deserve to be in my life, more than just bringing in light. It’s realizing that everything I do has an impact on people I don’t know.

In a more specific sense, I realized at times I must sound like a complete floozy. Who’s to say if I am, or if I’m just more telling than some women? Last night the Playa MC and I were tossing back a couple of beers at the local spot, when I started telling him about how an encounter with another woman has changed me.

Sure I was drunky drunk. I think I had been drinking for more than 8 hours with old friends by the time she showed up. I didn’t know her, but her boyfriend and I are childhood friends. I didn’t know she would actually kiss me. I didn’t know that she would throw me down on the bed and make out with me like a banshee.

I always liked fantasizing about being with another woman. It seemed so soft and thrilling in my imagination. It seemed the experience would be so utterly sexual in the most feminine of ways that I dreamt up scenarios from time to time. I’ve always known that I’m not a lesbian, so I’ve never truly hit on another woman. From time to time, I’ve crossed paths with women that have made me questions that position, but I never tried it out.

So that night I was shocked. I was speechless to the point that the girl on top of me kept giving me a weird look as she kissed and caressed my body. This isn’t what I had in mind. I thought that it would be more intimate, more sensual, but it wasn’t. In fact, I didn’t find her particularly attractive. Its not that she wasn’t beautiful in her own way, it just wasn’t in that way that makes me wet. Maybe it was because she was a woman, or maybe it was because of her boyfriend who was watching us. I felt like I was in some cheap porn. At some point, I got up and excused myself. I’m not sure why I felt the need to apologize, but I did. Looking back on it there was nothing to apologize for. It wasn’t something that I particularly wanted to happen.

So she ruined the fantasy for me. Or maybe I ruined it for myself, who’s to say. Regardless now, that erotic little dream died. I’ve tried fantasizing about other women in my private time, and that damn red head keeps popping up and killing it for me. She squashed my fantasies with a realistic thud. Damn her. Now I have to find something else to entertain my thoughts while I indulge myself. Past experiences are fine, but I think I want something new to divert my attention.

What’s next? Midgets? Not really my thing. If you think of anything let me know. If not, I’ll be delving into some erotica after this damn exam in order to bring back my creativity.

And how this is reflective of my actions being reflective on the rest of the world, I’m really not sure.

Did I tell you that I’ve been studying like a mad woman?

Friday, January 21, 2005


I’ve been calling him Stinky ever since he arrived here. The receptionist called me to escort him to his area. I opened the door to see some brown tattered pig leather brief case stuffed under a disheveled man’s cheap thin dress shirt. The least he could do is wear an undershirt. I hate the way a man’s nipples show through those $12.99 dress shirts.

It doesn’t matter, I though. I’ll just give him the information he needs and he’ll be out of here in no time.

He’s been here since before Thanksgiving, and given the comfort he expresses in the office outside by cubicle, he has no intention of leaving his newfound soft spot. His hair is greased back by some disgusting wax or gel that appears is if it wants to leave his head. His shirt is barely tucked in and it ruffles up in places because of the crappy job he does dressing himself. My 5-year-old nephew does better than this slovenly soul. Then again, we’re pretty sure that my nephew is either gay or destine to be the first male in Broadway to sport fuck a woman dancer because he truly wants to. Either way, I just want free tickets to his shows.

Stinky is nothing like that. His skin is rather dry and pasty. At times I wonder why the hair on his chin is so long and flowing. It’s like the hair on my arms, but it’s lying there on his face all long and strait. It’s like an old woman who has hair on her chin. He tried shaving one day, but cut himself and bled all over his pathetic work shirt. He’s so lazy he didn’t bother to put toilet paper or a band-aid on the cut. Instead I watched the blood drip off his chin and onto his shirt as we talked about fixed assets. Drip, drip, drip. And he didn’t even move or wipe it or anything. His shirt was soaked with dots of red and brown drying blood.

I’ve avoided him at all costs. He submits his requests to me on papers that smell like him. Dirty and greasy and some other smell I can’t place, but it lingers and makes my desk smell like he’s sitting in here with me. I shove the papers in a folder and move them as far away as possible.

I went to check on Stinky today and let him know I’d be gone for a couple of days. Did he need anything? Did he have enough to do while I am out? Does he have any questions or concerns about the audit?

And in his pathetic little way, he looked up and asked me to explain something to him. And I realized that in some ways, we’re all a little like Stinky. Maybe not on the outside, but on the inside there’s that person we find some days. The one we have to motivate to put on deodorant and force to floss. The person who wants to put on that old hoodie that hasn’t been washed in a month, but it’s worn every day. That person who’s embarrassed to talk to others because they know they’re not playing within the rules of self-respect. They haven’t shaved their legs in weeks, because its winter and pants are good enough. They haven’t taken out the trash in weeks and it seems like you can go one more day.

Poor Stinky. His little every now and then waste of a person crept up and took over his self-loving person. He needs help getting out of there. So I smile and now I try and treat him more like colleague than I did before. Cause Stinky, I know where you are. I just don’t stay there as often as you do. And at the end of a day, I love to take a long bath, shave my legs, and jump into clean sheets. It’s the little things some days.

Friday, January 14, 2005

Thanks, come again….

Ok I admit it. I’m fucking sad, and not sad like “gee I wish I had that one, not this one” kind of sad. I’m sad like my soul is ripping apart and all I can do is sit here like the pathetic little shit I can be at times and just watch it blow away. I’ll just sit here, smoking a cigarette and wishing that I could numb out or leave my body for a minute.

And fuck no, I don’t know why. I don’t know why giant mythical birds scare the hell out of me. I don’t know why single balloons flying in the sky make me sad either. Or why spear grass and buttercups make me giggle. Some things just are. And right now, I am just where I am.

Right now I want to write the author of that book, “Wherever you go there you are” and tell him to fucking leave the goddamn planet, because I need a vacation from myself. And I know I never get like this, but guess what? I have my days too. I can’t always entertain my friends with stupid stories and make them feel like we’re part of a rockstar posse. Sometimes I just need them to sip a slightly less than cold beer with me and stare out the window at the people shuffling by in their bad shoes. I don’t need them to say a thing. Just be there. Maybe hold my hand.

I had to see the gyno today. Maybe this explains everything. Why is it that they always comment on your cervix? “Looks really good. Great in fact”. Well, fucking thanks lady. Can I get a picture to show my lover so he’ll be all impressed and shit? “Look dear, this is a picture of what you’re fucking. Nice, huh?” Ya, that’d go over well. And what do they say to the bad looking ones? “Looks really….well, not so good in here” I imagine the voice echoing through the walls of the girls inside like it a cave. Thanks for the commentary, but could you really just pull those damn metal things out of me now?

I guess I should be happy my girl is happy. It was when she looked over and asked me about the outcome with my estranged hubby that I started to cry. Not because she had just violated my insides or because I felt obligated to her. It was a weird since of vulnerability. I guess my thought process was, well you’ve seen my insides here’s the rest of it.

She tells me this depression will only last a couple of months and that I need to go get on meds immediately. Who me? Happy Mandy? Shit.

Then again, I guess something should be done to stabilize me. My favorite word right now is fuck, my favorite drink right now is 6 of anything, and my favorite clothes are my pjs. I haven’t slept through the night in weeks and I just related it to drinking. Last night I didn’t sleep and I didn’t drink, so even my sorry ass alcoholic excuses aren’t working. Beautiful. So much for schlepping off my problems on an addiction. Even that won’t work.

This just isn’t me. I’m ready to be done with my couple of months of sadness now.
Thanks and have a nice cervix.

Thursday, January 13, 2005

What's next?

Odd things keep happening around town. Last weekend I met a couple of English men who actually acknowledged, without prompting, that I am in fact a goddess. If memory serves me right, one of them even knelt to show how well he could worship.

The Playa MC (formally Cal, who I am now changing his names due to his recent prowess) met a tarot card reading, vodka slurping, x-witch who has ESP. I think she might have a whole lot more up her sleeve, but only time can tell.

The Playa MC and I saw the best, or is it worst, mullet in the world last Saturday night. We made several attempts to snag a photo of the beast, but were denied each and every time. Only our memories will hold that man’s glory.

I flashed the worker at the YMCA yesterday. Is it me, or if you decide to work on the women’s shower in the middle of the day I think a sign might be appropriate. Nothing flashy, but a simple – “There’s a man in the locker room right now” would work. I’m not sure how many of my fellow Y members he caught a peek of, but I bet some of those 80 year old women had something to say about it. Hopefully the memory of all those sagging breasts will detour him from forgetting the sign next time. I hope he can hear today, also. I let out quite the shriek when I stumbled up on him.

Today at lunch I saw a real live pimp driving a Transam. This may not be news worthy to some of you, but it is to me. He was wearing a black pimp hat with a red scarf tied around it, a black suite, plenty of rings, and a hot red shirt. All this and he was lighting his cigarette with a match. A match? Don’t you think that a pimp could afford a lighter? I mean he had a fancy Transam and all. I wanted to follow him, but alas the Transam goes much faster than my cabrio-gay. I suppose he was off to his stable to pimp out his next trick. Ahh, what a life.

And lastly, well…someone asked to smoove me. I’m blushing. Why does this make me think of that song, "Smoove me baby one more time, once is never enough with a man like you...."

Well, I don’t really have anything else. Guess that’s about it. Maybe a deep thought will come my way. If it does, I’ll share it with you. Until then, it’s shallow sailing for me.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

Happy Birthday NuNu!

Wow. I’m a terrible aunty. My X, K. just called to remind me that it’s NuNu’s birthday. He’s turning 3 today. Ahh, my adorable beautiful little nephew, don’t feel bad. I don’t remember anyone’s birthday on the correct date.

However, your day was an event sketched into my mind of how you brought your peace to our family.

My sister, Meme, was induced into labor on a Monday morning. Her last pregnancy had gone horribly wrong, so everyone was there to make sure she was going to make it through this one. Meme’s best friend, Miss J. was also there. Miss J was also being induced into labor that same day. My sister and Miss J were chatting before they were called into their rooms. It was like a little tea party between them, hardly the emotional levity I had expected.

About Meme was changing and getting into bed her doula walked in. The doula was hired because her husband is an unsupportive ass at times. It didn’t help matters that last time she tried to give birth she almost died. The extra help was crucial for her emotional state. The doula was a breath of fresh air. She was positive and had unnatural Kool-Aid red hair. She wore tons of jewelry and giggled with every sentence she spewed out.

Next up came the anesthesiologist. A handsome tall young man dressed in a routine white lab coat floated through the room asking my sister to call him when she was ready for her epidural. The nurses were in and out like a small swarm of bees. The doctor graced up with his presence and dashed out.

I was a wreck watching my sister talking away to her doula. She didn’t remember the last time the way that we did. Blocked for her memories are the seizures, the MRIs, her lost heartbeat, and the ICU. She doesn’t remember the pictures of the baby that we put in her isolated room. She forgets that she didn’t get to hold her baby for days after he was born. She was bruised beyond recognition. She was almost stolen from my life, and yet here she was excited to try it again.

The anesthesiologist came back in to give her the epidural. After she knotted up in a little ball, out came the long needle and then his shithead statement. “Oh, it didn’t go in the right place. I have to do it again”. I hit the roof at his error and was removed from the room temporarily due to my outburst and temper. Incompetency with a huge needle really isn’t a small discretion

By the time I got back, Meme was being coached on her pushing and her husband was working via his Blackberry. The selfish bastard! Here she is working her little body to death and he’s texting friends and coworkers. I wish she could marry that damn flaming red dula who is sweating as much as my sister is at that point.

We’re all coaching Meme along, when the door swings open and 10 firemen walk in. Yes, boys and girls, it was Austin training day on childbirth. So with a team of 10 firemen, one crazed dula, two sisters, two mothers, and one arrogant father NuNu slipped into this world with an audience at hand.

A perfect little baby boy born around chaos and fright. My sister was laughing, her husband texting away, and I was crying at the health that remained in that room. NuNu was calm and quiet after the initial shock of the world, and nestled into my sister’s chest. Everything stopped and for a moment and his grace, so new to us, filled the room.

He’s our blessing. He’s still the child who walks into the room while his brother is throwing a fit and crawls up into the couch and just watches him. He’s not judging Boo or looking scared. He’s just been here before. He’s patient. He’s our calm in the storm of this family, even at 3.

Happy Birthday, NuNu. I am grateful you are here.

Friday, January 07, 2005


Well, guys. If you’re too good of friends with me, or you just can’t stomach thinking of me in a sexual way, it’s time for you to skip this post. (Cal, this post may not be for you!) Otherwise saddle up, partner, we’re off for a ride.

There are few things in this world that put me in the mood for a good thrashing about. Gin tops the list. So does trashy dance music and watching men at the gym, but this feeling is not about that.

This feeling is the one that comes over me when I’m getting over being sick or just a little hung-over, which is the case today. I felt the need for the warmth of a good man washing over me last night. I was sipping on a vodka tonic talking to the boys at the local bar. My attention fluttered aimlessly as the boys drank and talked about their jobs. I sat curled up in the corner of the booth, my legs folded up and maybe there was just enough of the cold seeping in through the door hitting me in just the right place to put me in the mood.

This time I don’t want you to slap my ass and talk dirty to me. I don’t want to hear about your cock and my pussy. I want to come home from work to find the house a little cold and quiet. I want to walk through the house silently and find you in my bed waiting for me. I don’t want you to say a word, just give me a little smile while you snuggled under the down comforter all warm and cozy. I want to get undressed while you stare at me.

Don’t say a word. Just watch me and feel yourself get hard. I want to slip under the heaviness of the comforter and turn towards you. I want us to lie facing one another. I want you to kiss me, tongues entangled for hours. I want to feel you in my mouth. I want you to do this until the sheets are wet from me and I can feel your sense of urgency. I want to make you slow down.

I want to be inside you for a long, long time. I want you to hold us in this pattern while the sun goes down and the streets grow quiet. I want you to pour lotion on me and rub yourself all over me. I want you to make me beg you with my eyes. That’s it. Touch me there. Not too rough, not too soft, just in the right place with the right amount of you pressing up against me.

Kiss me all over. Lick me all over. Don’t let it end just yet. I am yours, if just this moment alone. I will always be inside you after this. On those days when you feel lonely and you don’t know why, it’s me whispering that I need your slow touch and wet kisses. Come inside me. Look at me when you do. Study my face when you make me climax. Learn the way I give myself to you. Learn the way I curve and bend to your needs. Love me in the deepest way you can. Make me yours.

**After my last recent post, I probably won’t see this for a while. Thanks be that I make love to myself like no one’s business. Tonight? Me, some good food, a little study time, and then I’m going to make my own earth shake. It’s about time I got my fill.

I know – I know. I pulled the tirade piss off post down.

You would too if a sweet boy called you last night all depressed, and when you asked him why he was sad he said “I just love you, and I’m sorry that things with your X still hurt. I know it’s hard, but you’re amazing.”

These words came from a boy who never gets depressed. A boy who misses his sunny weather and warm southern smiles, and feels a little down that his best girl is sad and he’s without her. A boy that held my hand a million times when I cried about my marriage, and taught me how to laugh in bed. A boy who would do spastic naked dancing just to see me smile.

I no longer wish to puke on him. I’ll reserve that for someone else. May the thunderbird swoop down and pick off some less deserving sap.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

Who’s Bitter? Not me!

To all the stupid fuckface (thanks be to Jen) boys who think that I’m a flake, might I remind you that I am very tired of dealing with manipulative men.

Next time I hear, “Oh, but baby you know I love you” I will commence to gather every little bit of food I have ever eaten and regurgitate it on your face. If I am unable to do this, I will proceed to do a ritual peyote dance in my yard until the Thunderbird arrives and carries you off to its nest or eats you whole. Either one is fine.

Next time Boy X tells me that I am one of those hot and then cold kind of girls, I will remind him that his fucking split personality might have something to do with it. If I tell you that I can’t go to dinner because I am studying, don’t take it personally. Getting my CPA will last longer than dinner or sex with you ever would. Not to mention, you suck in bed. One look at a boy who shaves all of his pubic hair makes me want to lock all my doors and pray the police won’t come and get me. If you have to go through such ordeals just to make your boy look bigger, maybe you should consider that women don’t care how big it is. They just want you to be able to use it. Save the money you spend on clippers and buy a fucking “how to get a woman off” video. Trust me half of Austin would be happier, you man-whore.

Don’t worry Wedding ring; I have something for you too. The next time you call me three times in one night, I’m going to call your wife and ask how your son’s doing. Obviously you’re not watching him. What on earth makes a man think a single woman would want anything to do with someone married? Thanks all the same, but I can get laid pretty easily. I’m a girl, remember? I don’t need to play hide the shalomi with you only to be burdened with a hysterical wife who’s going to take all your money once she finds out what a piece of shit you are. Then what will I have? A cheater with no money. You think you’re worried about the value of your home now? Wait until she takes it all and you’re sleeping under the South Congress bridge, Daddy. You and your son can play slug bug from your sleeping bag.

And there’s something for the other boy who constantly loves to fuck with my mind. If I wanted you to come into my life and put me on an emotional roller coaster, I would have just gone down to SPCA and looked at all the puppies that are about to be put down. Your nice, your mean, you want me to cater to your every whim, you want me not to baby you…blah blah blah. You miss me, you don’t. You’re coming in town, your too busy, your staying over, your driving home. Oh good God, just make up your mind and stick with it. And the next time you lie to me and tell me you’re not hitting on a girl, will be the last time you see my pretty face. I checked it out with everyone I know and it has been decided that the following line is hitting on someone. “You’re really pretty. I bet you get hit on all the time at work”. (If anyone reading this disagrees, feel free to correct me) I’m not sure if you’re fucking her yet, or if you were just trying to piss me off, but either way it doesn’t get me wet. If you want me to like you, try being nice and stop playing games with me.

And to the other two boys who guilt me about not calling them back, I’m not calling you back because I don’t like you. What do you want me to do? Go out with you and spend all your money knowing that I’ll never want to be with you. I’m not sure if you guys are masochists are not, but save your money for some girl who doesn’t realize how desperate you are.

I’m done. And from the looks of this post, I’m about to be dateless for the next month. Oh, well. That works for my schedule.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

Rainy days

It’s days like this when I miss you. When it’s rainy outside and everything is coming down on me. You always made it better in such an effortless way. You’d call to tell me hello and that I am beautiful. Those little notes filling my email reminding me that tomorrow will be better.

You’ll work on the house and do all the laundry. You’d tell me just to focus on work and my studies. You’d pay the bills and make dinner. You feed the dog and find my glasses when I throw a fit in the morning rush. You start my car on mornings when it’s freezing outside, because you know I hate the cold. You put my towel in the dryer when I take a bath so it’s warm when I get out. You take my calls even when you’re in board meeting and people are grilling you about how you run your organization.

You change the CDs in my car because you know I don’t make time. You leave my drawers open, even though you hate it, because I like them like that. You leave love notes in my car and in my books. A reminder that life is more than rushing to the next big thing. Reminders that I can do anything I put my mind to.

I cry because you don’t buy me anything sentimental for my birthday. Two days later a picture of Dr. John at his piano comes in the mail from my favorite photographer. You bought it because you like the way I looked when he played, my eyes amazed by his talent. I wondered why it you took so long to get beer during that show.

You tell everyone how great I am, even though I haven’t shown you my good side in weeks. You point out to your mother that I do a better job of cooking some of her dishes. You wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me that you saw a new talent in me that day.

You promise to never leave me.

I make you go.

I tell you to take care of yourself. I tell you that I’m fine on my own.

But on days like this, these cold rainy days when everything is coming at me at once, I whish for just one moment you would open the door and hug me. I wish I would walk into the house and see you and the dog smiling at me, eating your horrible jambalaya and telling me bad jokes. I miss you, my friend. It’s cold over here without you.

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Luck runs away

I’m driving along highway 71 listening to the Pixies as loud as the VW stereo will blast, when I look over in time to see a state trooper spot me. My first thought is how boring defensive driving is going to be. Why do people think that bad comedians are going to help me enjoy eight hours of anything?

If you’ve never been pulled over by a Texas state trooper, let me be the first to tell you they look exactly like this. Hat, chewing tobacco, boots and all. I see him driving up behind me with his lights flashing, and immediately pull off to the shoulder of the road. I get out my insurance card and driver’s license and wait for him to come up to my window.

Howdy, mam. I pulled you over because you were going 78 in a 70. Any emergency?” he says with a horrible southern drawl. “No sir” I squeak out and wait for my ticket. I’ve learned the less you say the better with these boys.

Mam, could I ask you to step out of the car?” he asks.

Umm...get out of the car? The only times I have been asked to step out of the car is when my car’s been searched for drugs. This has happened on a couple of instances when I was in the wrong place at the wrong time (aka looser boyfriend #4). I step out of car and feel the traffic whizzing by me. My legs are a little shaky and I’m starting to realize that I’m scared of this redneck officer.

Mam, please step to the back of the car”. Holy shit! Isn’t this what they say during those Cops episodes right before they cuff the strung out dude who’s dressed up like Paris Hilton with burn marks on her hands? I walk to the back of my car as carefully as I can. My legs are still trembling and these stupid tall black pumps aren’t cooperating with the gravel at all. The whole time I’m thinking this guy is going to mistake my nervousness for intoxication, and that makes my heart race.

I watch him from behind my car, poking his huge cowboy hat through my car window. He stops and walks back to me. I’m shivering from the wind and endorphins and hoping my short skirt might pull a few strings. “Mam, what’s that thing with the bird on it?” he asks while his eyebrows point down and mold into one large V. “Oh, that would be a little candle votive holder thingy…” I sputter with my hands flying everywhere.

And then it hits me. Oh, no! D’s Christmas gift is in a crappy brown paper bag on my front seat, and as I remember this a Cheshire cat smile crosses my face. The officer looks at my expression, tilts his head down, spits, and says “I’m gonna give you a warning, Mam. Slow it down”.

Damn! The one time I would have LOVED to be searched and nothing. I’m shaking like a leaf on the side of the road looking as scared as Sid without Nancy, and the man doesn’t even search my damn car. If only he had. That little brown bag contained a rather large pink vibrator designed for a man’s delight. (Imagine a little pink face with a sock behind it and you’re on your way.) Oh, and think of the happiness I would have had telling him what that was as he held it up on the side of the road. “Oh, THAT officer? Oh, you’re holding a man’s pleasure device. See you put the vibrator right here in her chin and off you go. They tell me to use a ton of lube, but you know, I don’t really know”. Big smiles all around. Damn, I have no luck at all. I would go to defensive driving and endure hours of flat jokes just to see one of those bubbas with a pink sex toy in his hand.

Monday, January 03, 2005

As close to a confessional as it’s going to get

It appears that New Year’s Eve turns me into a complete whore. Since I’ve been in a relationship for the past 6 years, I didn’t realize the slut force lying within me. From what I can recall, the old saying of “Gin gets her naked” is true. Below is a list of my behavior. If you are a powerful deity, I most humbly request your forgiveness. I promise to control myself next year.

Everything was fine before midnight, after that things got blurry. I ended up at the wrong party with “new” friends. Thank goodness people have cameras that document our crass behavior. Otherwise, I would still have a false sense of self-respect. The next day revealed pictures of me, nestled up to some girl revealing my breasts at the bar we were at. I can only hope that every man in the joint saw my lude behavior and will now regard me as the 2005 New Year’s Whore. I would wear my sash proudly, but that kind of goes against the naked theme. You understand.

I also decided to grab several of my guy friend’s asses throughout the night. I passed the point of a friendly fun loving third-grade tactic, when I grabbed someone’s booty that I didn’t know. I think his wife knew I was only joking, but she may now refer to me as the 2005 NY’s Eve Home Wrecker. I don’t recall apologizing, but I did find her business card in my purse. I’m taking this to mean that we must all be friends now, and I will be invited to their next barbeque. If not, I assume I will start getting dead animals delivered to my house. I’ll let you know.

Saturday morning I woke up at noon only to find my friends in the hot tub. Since it was noon, I decided the right thing to do was to grab a beer and join them. After spending a long day’s work gossiping about other NYE whores in the bubbly water, I received my penance for my evil doings of the prior night. It seems the hard concrete on the hot tub seats turned my naked bum into a scratch pad of some type. My derrière is about as red as it can be and I managed to rub a good portion of the skin off of it. Let’s just say I’m in a bit of pain as I type this. The idea of bringing a little hemorrhoid ring seat into the office crossed my mind today, but I didn’t know which situation was more embarrassing. Getting the question: “Gee, do you have hemorrhoids?” or having to respond, “No, I’m just your typical slut who spends all day naked drinking in a hot tub to the point where she can’t feel her ass rubbing off”. Classy.

Before I realized what horrid things that hot tub was doing to me, I allowed a friend to take a picture of me and another friend bent over the side of the pool. Yes, somewhere the lies a picture of my red moon arising. Lovely. So as it turns out, I am something of an exposure hog. I had no idea until this weekend. I can’t wait for all of my family to see these pcitures on the Internet. “Ahh, look at our little girl. Just as I remember her, ass up!”

If you see me in the New Year, please help me make my goal of being clothed in all pictures taken in 2005. I would do it for you. And should you see one of these pictures floating around, please don’t forward them to my mother. As for now, I have made it over 24 hours without being photographed in the nude or molesting anyone. Thank you. Thank you very much.

Free Counter