I have actually been starting to feel better lately. I wonder, will that make my sex drive come back? I kinda miss it.

it is really weird when something you like a lot, like your sex drive, gradually disappears. little by little it ebbs away and before you know it, it is gone completely. once it is gone how do you know where to look for it?
is it in my closet?
did i throw it away accidently with that left over pizza?
that girl who was in my house last week, maybe she stole it?

it wasnt huge or particullarly wild and crazy. if it had a color it would be FF9966.
if you find it let me know.

dear scott,

i’m not sure if you remember me, but i sure remember you! we dated during college in 1994 for a few months. we met through a friend, but i don’t remember which friend. mary? joe? elizabeth? who remembers! i just wanted to drop you a note and ask how the hell you’ve been? i sure have thought about you a lot since we parted ways.

you always had a great sense of humor, always cracking jokes with me. your tattoo was cool, too. i got one too later on, after i moved away. i still wish i could have a house the size of your ranch, with all that property. what a great place to live.

i just wanted to tell you that i sometimes think about you and remember how great you were in bed. you had incredible stamina, you could go all day and night! i wonder if you can still do that now that you’re older. we really did have some good times, right up until the part where you raped me. i never really understood that part, you know? maybe you can explain it to me.

in case you forgot, i’ll remind you how it happened. we were cutting class, hanging out at your house, having our usual awesome sex. i told you that i needed to drive back to school at two o’clock so i could turn in my term paper, and that after that i was free for the rest of the day. i had even asked you to help me watch the clock, and you said yes, because you knew my professor was a bitch about lateness.

so we were having great sex, and i realized it was ten minutes till two, which gave me five to get dressed and five to get to school. i jumped out of bed and started to get dressed, but you wanted me to stay. i thought you were cute, pretending to make me stay. then you started to annoy me, because you wouldn’t stop pulling me back into bed, and i was really going to be late.

you threw me back on the bed and nearly growled at me, “you’re not going anywhere.” this confused me, because you’re generally a fun, casual guy. you lunged at me, and i put my feet in your stomach and kicked you across the room as hard as i could, then grabbed my clothes and started to run. but you were faster. you threw me down and sodomized me as i cried with my face pressed into your mattress.

when you were finished with me, you did let me go, and you even gave me a ride back to school, where i had left my car. that was sure nice of you. i can’t imagine why we grew apart after that – it seemed we just never ran into one another anymore, and i lost your phone number anyway.

hope this letter gave you as nice a trip down memory lane as i have had every day since we last met.

sincerely,
emmie

i was walking down the hall at work today when someone jumped out from behind a potted rubber tree and yelled, ‘aha!’ i pointed at them and laughed. then i said, seriously, ‘your hair’s on fire.’ and went back to my desk. i think they believed me.

that’ll teach them.

la la la la la.

today the faucet broke. the one in the kitchen. while i was cooking. it started spraying water all over my kitchen, kind of like the fire hydrants you see people dancing around in the summertime when it’s really, really hot. spewing cold, cold water. everywhere.

i figured what the hell? i’m spontaneous, right? make lemonade and all that shit. so i knotted my hair and my t-shirt and started dancing. and laughing. i haven’t laughed so hard for like six months or something (ever since i got my stupid job). i know the neighbors downstairs thought i was insane, or being raped and killed. funny how when people start having fun, everyone around them thinks something is wrong with them. nothing was wrong. everything was right. they started banging on my floor from below with a broomstick, hollering worriedly at me in spanish, but i kept on dancing. until i fell and broke my ankle.

who actually drinks lemonade, anyway? *spit*

how does one go about picking up girls?

i think i would most likely wear a habit that was hot pink trimmed in purple. and i would not refer to it as a habit, which implies something done mindlessly. i would definitely call it a better name.

i guess i should do some washing, this is my last clean addiction!

and my hair would be dyed to match, but nobody would know it unless a little bit of hair slipped out from under my addiction when i was being too rowdy. because i would definitely be a rowdy nun. has there ever been such a thing? how wonderful it would be to do it first, to boldly dress as no nun has dressed before.

i’d be the neil armstrong of nunneries.

don’t you know that you can’t crunch potato chips while you’re talking on the telephone? especially to a colleague? at least pretend to be professional.

you can pretend, can’t you?

8:03 a.m.:
wake to ringing telephone which will not shut up because your machine is off.

8:05 a.m.:
calm hysterical friend who is having some drama. pour large mug of black coffee and light cigarette. repeat.

8:12 a.m.:
fall unceremoniously back into bed. make yourself promise to sleep only one more hour.

10:32 a.m.:
wake because of the extreme dryness in your throat because you were sleeping with your mouth open. wipe away drool. pour large mug of black coffee and light cigarette. repeat.

10:46 a.m.:
take a really, really cold shower. because you like it. or because the boiler’s busted.

10:47 a.m.:
while cursing profusely, make mental note to call boiler repair guy.

10:58 a.m.:
masturbate, because you can.

11:18 a.m.:
beg and plead with your rusty old car to start running and not stop until you say so. bribe it with promises of detail and new paint job.

11:36 a.m.:
arrive at work a full six minutes late because you got in a fight with a construction guy on the service road.

11:40 a.m.:
visit your boss’s office, upon special request. be threatened with loss of your job. threaten to quit because you don’t know what else to do. explain about the construction guy and gain favor with boss, who hates construction guys too.

12:03 p.m.:
fuck off, because you can, until lunch.

12:29 p.m.:
avenge your honor by taking lunch one minute early.

1:35 p.m.:
masturbate, in the executive washroom, because you can.

1:40 p.m.:
write a report much quicker than you should. surf your favorite blogs.

2:27 p.m.:
smoke, but not in the designated smoking area. because you can.

2:45 p.m.:
read your hastily written report. find errors. page intern to fix them.

3:30 p.m.:
answer a call on your cell phone from your best friend across the country. feign some emergency and leave work early, promising to come in early tomorrow.

4:16 p.m.:
browse the local bookstore for books recommended by oprah. resist the urge to wallow in fictional angst, and buy a lesbian sex book instead.

4:38 p.m.:
peruse the lesbian sex book. masturbate. light cigarette. repeat.

5:24 p.m.:
shop online for window treatments for your bedroom, so nobody can watch you masturbate. order a funky wig which is very close to your real hair color, because fake hair freaks people out. plan to wear it to work every day for a week.

6:28 p.m.:
order chinese food with your credit card. eat something for dinner that sounds kinky when said with an american accent.

7:15 p.m.:
open, read, and eat all three of the free fortune cookies, because you can.

8:00 p.m.:
play a heinously violent computer game. target with your submachine gun all the spots on your victim which produce the most gore and sounds of terror. smoke.

9:19 p.m.:
tell the telemarketer who called your house where to stick his courtesy call. wait for his response, then giggle madly.

9:23 p.m.:
surf your favorite blogs. get sidetracked by ridiculous headlines and uproariously amusing satire. e-mail these links to all your friends.

10:30 p.m.:
check your blog stats.

11:12 p.m.:
post on your own blog, detailing your utterly uneventful day in an attempt to seem interesting.

i did not fire my boss as planned. but it’s okay, because he didn’t fire me, either.

there’s always tomorrow …

i will fire my boss.

i want to date a woman who knows how to jimmy open a locked car door. she has a tattoo of an anchor somewhere on her body, and she has a strong first name. she knows who she is. she has my number.

i have this whole plan for finding her. i will drive my old ford down a road which is off the beaten path, but not entirely remote. i will park, get out, and lock my keys inside the car. i will stand on the side of the road, looking very forlorn, the penultimate damsel in distress.

i would have called the motor club, but my phone is in there too! whatever shall i do?

she will pull over when she sees me pacing around my car, peering in through each of the windows in turn. her first concern will be my safety, of which i will assure her by resting my hand lightly on her strong forearm. i will give her that aren’t-i-just-a-silly-girl-that-you-want-to-take-care-of giggle. i will also cast my eyes downward while chewing my lip, and of course, i will twirl my hair.

i am nervously sexy.

i will be unable to meet her eyes, which tells her that although i am having car trouble, i will accept the help of a perfect stranger. and that i will probably sleep with her as repayment. she will rush to find the slim jim that she keeps in the truck for such a time, and will open my door with veteran ease. i will watch in awe. i will then gush thankfully, and ask her.

is there any way i can repay you? anything at all, name it. i mean, without you, i’d have been stranded here for god knows how long!

i will sit in the driver’s seat, only halfway in the car, with my legs splayed awkwardly, while we are talking. she will see that my toes are impeccably manicured, and will be drawn to touch my stylishly tousled hair. she will invite me for a drink. i will suggest we go to her place so she can teach me how to jimmy open my car door in case this ever happens again. i will have no intention of learning.

i will follow her to her place, make friends with her junkyard dog, drink one too many nightcaps, and fall into her bed. she will hesitate, but will be unable to resist my vulnerability. it’s what she longs for. i will say no, but i will mean what’s taking you so long? she knows it.

she speaks my language.

we will probably move to a new domain within a week. as soon as ellie gives me the go-ahead. switching to movable type is another beast altogether, apparently. we’ll see how that works out, exactly.

all kinds of technical issues with the blog and the archives etc. today. we apologize profusely and will have it back to normal as soon as humanly possible.

please do come back again. we like you.

listen, YOU asked me to do this.
so quit running and screaming like a girl!

hey emmie. would you care to kill me? or at least maim me beyond caring?

the archives are randomly appearing and disappearing, and not just the links, but the pages themselves, which blogger’s fix for disappearing archives can’t fix. and i don’t really trust blogger that much anyway. so. we are going to be moving to a new server as soon as possible. and possibly changing to movable type or grey matter. this page will then become a redirect page.

so, yeah. more on this breaking news as it happens.

the heat index is ridiculously high. and i go in to make sure that she is sleeping well. there is no air conditioner in her room, but the bay window is thrown wide open, and a mercifully cool breeze flutters in from under the shifting curtains. she isn’t in her bed, or on the couch, or in the bathroom. but she can’t have gone far.

i pull on a tank top and boxer shorts and go wandering around the neighborhood, barefoot. after walking purposefully for a while, i slow down and decide to cut through the park to the road on the other side, which has many majestic trees. she likes the trees. i once found her on the grass beneath one over there, huddled under her down comforter in november, a curl of a smile on her sleeping lips.

as i reach the fountain, a long shadow across the square catches my eye, and it’s her. i’m kind of amused. she’s wandering through the park at two in the morning, alone. which is okay, because she’s wearing my platform boots of superprotection. better than a gun or a condom. and a sleepshirt, a white one with some logo down the side, that almost reaches her knees. i call to her casually, as though we had run into one another on the street during daylight hours, or like colleagues who have been playing telephone tag for a week. she stops walking and just stands there, swaying in the breeze with her back to me.

my step quickens as i cross the square to where she stands not moving. i turn her shoulders so she is facing me, but slowly, so not to startle her. her eyes are open, but the irises dimmed somehow, by a thin film of sleep. they remind me of those of a sleeping snake with translucent eyelids. or is that a fish?

i put my arm around her waist and hold her hand, leading her gently toward the house. she murmurs softly, occasionally giggling, and i giggle with her. we are like two schoolgirls sharing gossip over after-school snacks in her world right now. she leans toward my ear and whispers loudly, but it doesn’t sound completely like english. i nod at her and smile, and pretend i know what she thinks she is telling whoever she thinks i am as we reach the front porch. we climb the wide steps carefully, then enter the house, where i tuck her into bed.

whatever. pictures aren’t always good indicators either. as you previously confirmed with your hairy-assed bald guy story. the real question is: where is our archive menu? and more importantly, why can the archive pages not be reached by entering the URL?

*mutter*

shit. do not wear that low cut peasant blouse if you don’t want people looking at your tits. of course you have great tits. so you probably DO want people looking at them.
I swear in that meeting I could not look her in the face. it was ridiculous.
she must go to a tanning salon…

i realized another thing that irritates me.

i was feeling sentimental.
he…
thinks the same as me.
(it is amazing how important a thought process is. )
say rather than having a hairy ass.
he is a more senitive person. someone with empathy.

but then i realize that i am a control freak and have no empathy. and so maybe we aren’t the same.

I too once went on a blind internet date.

mine was with a man.i did get a picure. (but it was only of his face which was accptable) we met and he was short and fat. and he was wearing pointy toes shoes for gods sake. pointy toed wing tips. it was like they were the shoes his mom bought him to wear to church. and his glasses were high school geek glasses from 1983.

I however was all decked out and cool as usual. a long black satin skirt and a gym shirt. and a choker and platform shoes. my hair was a beautiful black satiny bob. and I was wearing bitch red lipstick.

eh, remember that emmie? bitch red. slut pink.

anyway. not only was he short, fat and ugly but pompous as well. I managed to get through dinner with him. it was my favorite indian place and he was paying. then we walked to the bookstore. the guy was smart. but shallow as I am, the short fat part made it impossible(he probably also had a hairy ass). so in the bookstore I managed to escape him for a while. we were supposed to go see a movie and were waiting for it to start.

I remember being entranced by this painting of a tomato on the wall of the bookstore.

need I say it? I feigned a headache and went home and never talked to him again.

i have noticed that he anawers my statements with my statement rephrased as a question.

me: i like that skirt that chick is wearing
him: you like that skirt that chick is wearing?

me: yeah, it looks like one i used to have
him: it looks like one you used to have?

me: could you stop repeating what i say?
him: you want me to stop repeating what you say?

me: *freaking out* SHUT UP!!!!
him: shut up?

and emmie..
ALWAYS GET A PICTURE.

hahahahahah

the last thing I would want would be a female whore. I just wouldn’t want it. not even a non sleazy one.

I once slept with this girl…
she was older than me by like 10 years. she was beautiful and sexy. the kind of girl I would stare at. and she was famous. and she invited me over to her house to hang out and spend the night.
I had no clue in the world that she would be hitting on me. I thought she was trying to be nice because I had just moved there and we worked at the same place.
we had a fun night. hung out with some of her friends, had some beers, talked. but once we got back to her house and got in bed…we were suddenly making out.
I don’t know maybe I need more romancing when it comes to girls. I have never been comfortable with sex for sex sake with other women. with men it is par for the course for some reason. but with women, no.
I suppose it might be that my drive for sex with women in generally is not very high. I am enormously attracted to women. I love to look at them. I want to touch them. but maybe it isn’t so much for sex. it is more …I don’t know really.

but it smacks of objectification. it also horribly smacks of the sentiment that women should enjoy only enjoy sex as a consummation of love. as though i expect somehting more pure form a woman.
@ the same time I have never had a good emotional relationship with a girlfriend.
maybe because i just don’t know how to.

but, back to my original point. sex with this girl was lovely and energetic and felt good. but it left me cold. it was devoid of feeling for me. too many glib words came out of her mouth. she was insincere.
and I have a very very highly attuned bullshit detector.

(possibly I have it too finely tuned.
I often dismiss things I shouldn’t.
I don’t ever believe compliments.)

someone told me later that years ago she had gone to some kind of sex camp. where they teach you to be more free sexually. which made me feel even worse about it for some reason. as though I had been one more experiment. whatever. it isn’t that i felt bad about about it anyway. it is just that i felt like i had slept with a whore and that i had slept wth someone i didnt really care about and that person was a women which made it harder.

maybe i should go to that camp. where does my mom sign me up?

so i go into the city to meet this lesbian. i have talked to her online several times and there seemed to be good chemistry. she could like, spell and shit. i drive three hours from suburbia to get there. i can’t have such meetings on my home turf for a number of reasons, including:

a) potentially running into someone i know who’s all like, who’s your friend? and me being like, this is a chick i met online who i’m test driving. hey, how’s your mom doing? and them being like, you have internet blind dates? and then they print it at my class reunion or something.

b) if i don’t like her and i want the date to end quickly, that’s harder because she’s already kind of on my turf, which is of course more threatening.

c) if she doesn’t like me and wants the date to end quickly, then wherever we are i will have to drive past every day or stop eating there, because it is the site of utter humiliation. but what if i like the food there, and that’s a complete waste.

so yes, i drive three hours to get there. we are supposed to meet at a big bar-club-type-thing which is first of all not my bag. but she likes beer. and i should recognize her by this flower tattoo at the base of her neck. her name is melanie. or maybe melissa? a girly name.

despite my better judgement and with my spider sense tingling, i enter the gaudy loud establishment and try to look like i’m not looking for someone, because that’s just stupid. i go to the bar and order a drink, but the bartender doesn’t believe i’m of age and cards me. i hate showing my license, what a stupid picture. i wonder if i could get it replaced with a nice casual snapshot, maybe the one where my hair was just right and my face wasn’t shining. i love that picture.

as i’m sitting there i become aware (spider man spider man) of someone down the bar staring at me. as the blurred image in my peripheral vision looks large and dark and kind of brutish, i decide to casually flee the scene. it’s either a man (ugh) or a big truck driver of a girl (ugh), both of whom i am definitely not looking for. before i can inconspicuously scamper, a big truck driver of a girl (ugh) with a flower tattoo at the base of her neck is next to me, introducing herself as melsomething. dammit. why did i tell her my hair was dyed purple at the tips and that i would be wearing a t-shirt with a celtic cross on it? dammit.

at least she bought my next round. i tried not to act like there was no physical chemistry, for clearly she was attracted to me. she put her hand on my arm when she laughed and asked to see my tattoo, which i got out of showing her by acting shy about being in public. stupid me, of course, thus provided the segue for the inevitable why don’t we go someplace more private where we can talk and i can see your tattoo? fuck. fuck. fuck.

because i have to be at work early tomorrow, that’s why. no, i just came out for a quick drink, to relieve the stress from studying for finals. i didn’t tell you i was in school? yeah, i’m less than halfway through. yeah, working full time, too. no, i never really get any time to relax or hang out, not for another three years. hell no, it’s not easy. that’s why they call it college. thanks for the drink, but i have to get going. sure, write down your number, of course i’ll call you next time i’m in the city. my number? here, let me give you my pager number, it’s really the best way to reach me. i’m moving next week anyway, and i don’t have my new number yet.

*flee*

I sure wish I was. a nice willing hot buff cabana boy.
preferably about 30 years old please.
none of this 19 year old shit.

I think I would like to fuck a male whore. they are out there. as ‘escort’ services. I really really considered it after my last boyfriend broke up with me.
i cant remember where i read it but i read some thing about a woman who bought a male whore and how great she thought it was.
why would I do that when I could probably go to a bar and pick up some guy to fuck? well. I hate picking people up at bars. it is boring. the escort would be a sure thing. and I wouldn’t have to talk to him. and I could guarantee that he would be hot and buff.
there is a definate lack of hot buff guys in my life.

that’s the thing that got me when my male friends started telling me about whore houses. how the girls would line up, the guy would point to the one he wanted to fuck, and then he got to fuck her.

I was torn between being appalled and then wanting to fantasize about being a whore.

I compromised and did both.

i have to say it. i HATE a man with a hairy ass.
sorry all you hairy assed men out there…

but i just can’t take it.

i miss my last boyfriends ass. all of him was smooth. he was smoother than me.
and he SHAVED HIS ASS ANYWAY.
making it doubley smooth.

all men should shave their ass.

and that;s my final answer.

oh. im around. just working up enough irritation to post some stuff. ex-girlfriends… ex-boyfriends… sex… stupidity.
the usual.

don’t you fucking sneak up behind me and tickle my sides and say, ‘boo!’

you don’t know me well enough to even ask to lay your hands anywhere on my body, much less do it without express permission. yes, i’ve heard the rumors around the office that you get blowjobs from jenny in your car when the two of you take lunch together. even if that is true (i would bet all ten of my toes that it’s not), this does not make you any kind of stud. and it does not mean that you can cross the two-foot-personal-space boundary with me. i’m a grown woman. you’re a grown man.

well, sort of.

whee. we got our first search engine hit.

i’m worried about ellie.
have you seen her?

sit over there and kibbitz in your language, so nobody else can understand your complaining or know who you are complaining about. gossip freely about us under our very noses, and cast disparaging glances to everyone around you. cluck your thick, fat tongue. we wouldn’t dream of protesting.

that would be politically incorrect.

do not ask me where i am going.
do not tell me how to get there.
do not question when i will be back.
or what you will do while i am gone.
or what i will do while i’m gone.

i will go there.
i will find my own way.
i will come back when i’m ready.
you will make it without me like you always have.
i will enjoy the going, and the finding, and the coming home.

Emotions are not to be avoided nor ignored–they are useful indicators
that can help you understand the importance of your actions.

*sigh*

hmmm. I just bought tickets for cirque in November.

how heinous is that? pretty damned if you ask me.(which you didn’t)
and it isn’t like he is asking for so much. like, just pay some attention to me and be nice most of the time.
but no. I am incapable of even that.
he inopportunes me. I don’t want to have to tell anyone that I am going to the gym after work. or that this weekend I plan on staying in bed until 2:00 reading and eating muffins…

it is like he is too dependant on me for happiness. i am happy when alone. he should be too. or is that asking too much?

there is nothing really wrong with him.

as soon as i found out what hookers were, in junior high, i thought that would be the job to have. my dad always said that your dream job was one you’d do for free, and everyone has sex for free. except hookers, because they’re smart. right?

i find myself contemplating a weekend trip to some hooker ranch in vegas, because i’m terrified of breaking the law. just a quick trip to look around and see what it’s all about, and maybe spend an exorbitant amount of money to do unspeakable things with a beautiful girl who enjoys her job. i do think that would so rule. also good is that she couldn’t affect me emotionally like the real life girls have and do. there will be no expectation of a relationship on my part to be met with utter rejection. there will be no uncertainty or curiosity. i will not be a guinea pig, ever again.

it would feel nice and smell nice and taste nice, like girls do. and it would be okay for me to be forward, because that’s why she’s there. or maybe she would be forward with me, which is equally nice. for a couple of hours, i would be her only concern, not some plaything to be had when her boyfriend isn’t around. she would not tease me. i would have her, and she would have me, at least for a little while.

we would kiss each other, lovingly, for at least an hour. that’s really my favorite part, the kissing. kissing a girl is unlike anything in the world. men are so lucky that way. the first time i did it, i felt like a bolt of lightning had hit me, but in a really, really good way. fireworks and all that. yeah, the earth moved. and it always does, every time i kiss a girl. kissing a man can be good or bad, depending on the man and his experience and how much he cares.

kissing a girl is electric. always.

now all of the archive pages match, except one. that one has an ad still, and the old icky template with no comments. i’m pestering pyra, so i hope they will fix it. it’s a simple ftp permission problem, it sounds like.

sigh.

girlsinthebag is now ad-free!
yippee!

i was at this weekend-long party in the canyon. there was about 50 of us, and it was a long drive to get there. there was nothing to do when we got there, no action going on until the next day. more than enough cute girls in this bunch to tide me over, and most of them girl-kissers. a few went to bed early, but most of us trucked the steep slope down to the river. we draped ourselves and our clothes over smooth, large rocks and baked for awhile. then someone hollered, ‘let’s bake!’ which i thought we already were, but he meant we should smoke some dope. so four or six or eight people produced bags of weed from their backpacks, and the rolling, packing, and bonging commenced.

some of the guys got the munchies so bad they went foraging, naked, for berries and edible plants. they took this girl with them who was some kind of herb expert in her free time. while they were wandering, i heard they all had sex together, three guys and one girl. what do you do with three guys anyway? you only have so many hands. when they came back, they were all flushed and giggling, and her hair was tousled with little twigs and grass all mixed up in it.

another girl whipped out a cell phone and called her girlfriend back at school, who’d stayed behind to study for finals. she giggled for awhile, then she started rubbing her hands all over her body, pinching her nipples, and letting out these low moans in between words. then – no kidding – i watched her rub her hand between her legs for several minutes, still giggling occasionally, until she was bucking her hips, slamming them against her hand. i thought she might break her back on that rock or something. when she got done with her orgasm, we all applauded, and she took a bow with the phone still at her ear.

a beautiful girl with long, blonde hair crawled off her rock and across the way to mine. she said hello, and we both burst into laughter. whatever she was trying to say came out so garbled that i just nodded my head, whatever she wanted was okay with me. she climbed my rock and straddled it, then pulled me onto my back below her so my head was between her legs. i closed my eyes and smelled her warm girl smell, and she began singing softly while she braided my hair. a brunette stumbled over our way, sat behind the blonde, and began braiding her hair too. i didn’t know how to braid hair, so i’m glad i was at the end. we all stopped braiding to pass around another community pipe, and shotgunned the pot smoke with each other. then we sat in a circle on the rock with our naked knees touching and took turns french kissing each other.

someone brought beer, and those still standing ran to it, and later someone built a bonfire and someone played an acoustic guitar. we danced like an ancient people, naked around the fire, kissing everyone within reach and caressing everyone else, and slept naked in our sleeping bags under the full moon.

is our blog HOT
or NOT?

i am unbelievably madly in love with the coffee girl.

her hair is chestnut brown, so rich with color that it could be a dye job, but natural enough that you think it’s probably not. she walks around the cafe with this little knowing grin on her face, and it makes me wish she would tell me all her secrets. her apron is always crisp and white and freshly pressed-looking, and i’m certain she has a discreet piercing or tattoo someplace that is covered by it. sometimes she wears belly shirts, and her stomach is girl-soft, not flabby but not rippling with muscle, either. she has excellent taste in shoes, and her name is probably kelly. or maybe something else, but not something like britney or ashley or hildegaard.

i have the same thing every morning on my way to work, a really big iced coffee. some days when i come in tired or cranky, i think she knows that somehow and she gives me a little squirt of whipped cream right on top, at no charge. she doesn’t even call attention to the fact that she did it, but i always say thank you anyway. i gave her my card last week and told her if she ever needed help with her taxes, i’m her man. that made her laugh, and broadened her little grin some, it lit up her whole face. she’s less guarded with me now, and a bit more friendly. she finally told me yesterday that her name is jenna, which is sort of like kelly. it’s not really tax season anymore, though.

i must ask her out, somehow.

my cousin was just here. she complained a lot, drank all my coffee, and smoked most of my cigarettes. her cell phone kept ringing. she checked the caller id, muttered, ‘fuckit,’ and threw the phone back in her purse. every time.

she just got the tops of her feet tattooed. pretty little stars in a swirly pattern. i asked if i could call her twinkle toes, and she lunged at me, but she was laughing. they’re actually really cute, better than the one she has on her back, which is too large and starting to fade. i don’t know what she’d do on a job interview though. wear boots, i guess.

why can’t i possibly ever get any sex when i want it?

why is it always on the terms of some other person, be it my intended victim, the person calling on the phone, the one ringing my doorbell, or the boss of my intended victim, who worked said victim so hard today that there will be no sex with said victim.

shall i find another victim? i really had my heart set on the one.

perhaps i will post a personal ad in some sleazy publication:
geekalicious person wanted for conversation, coding assistance, bill-paying, and sex on demand. must be into everything, just in case i feel like it that day. must never, ever touch my hair without express written permission. no whiners. male/female preferred (no aliens please). send code sample.

sex with oneself is perfectly enjoyable in its own right. it’s just that when you’re expecting to molest someone who is suddenly unavailable, it’s like picking up a glass of what you think is coke and it’s lemonade. you like lemonade, but you were expecting coke, and it makes your face twitch.

the archive pages are ugly and don’t match. that’s because of a nifty little vbscript error when republishing archives that i can’t get around. i can’t find anything about it in blogger’s support pages except something that says to log out and back in, which doesn’t work. the user-to-user forums have a gazillion posts in them, and i do have a life (although i did peruse about a dozen pages looking for someone who posted about this problem). i even e-mailed phil ringnalda, he who knows all that is good and right with blogging, and after several messages back and forth, still no success. that’s no reflection on phil, though. he’s so smart he switched to mt.

so for now at least, deal with the archives being ugly (i can if you can), and we’ll see what we can do about it later. sploosh!

okay, this is about as good as this fucking template is going to get tonight. as you can see, we added comments for those of you who like to spout off. say what you like, we do. we added stat tracking so we know where the hell you people are coming from. and of course, there’s a picture of my tits over there on the sidebar.

ha! made ya look!

more new shit later. i have to sleep now, because i have to, like, work and shit.