Ooo, it here!
My “Chaotic Good” T-shirt came in today.
And that was about the only exciting thing that occurred.
The rest of the day has been spent watching the Africa series on Netflix, catching the newest Chelsea Handler episode (I, too, am childless and happy), and pining for a relationship like Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman’s.
I mean, shh, what? Me, pining? As if.
OK, so ever since I discovered the existence of Amanda Palmer and her life years ago, I’ve genuinely wanted something like she and her husband have.
If someone’s going to bother with me for a long-term ride, then I hope it’s as incredible as what they have.
Otherwise, what’s the fucking point?
Not that I want to be them or that I want someone just like Neil Gaiman, far from it actually.
I want me to be me and broski to be broski.
But I’d like to have the sensible, realistic, nonsensical, flawed and ever-improving dynamic that Palmer and Gaiman have.
I want reality. I want genuine. Sincere. Respect. No bullshit.
Although the marriage bit is a little meh to me. Commitment is commitment, as I’m sure I’ve stated before. Once I’m tagged in, I’m in it til death or until the other person has moved on to someone else. But a wedding? I’d rather save the money, avoid the embarrassment, and have a fuck-week in the hotel on some warm coast somewhere. And pie. And beer, but that seems like a given what with it being a fuck-week. It ain’t successful without the liquor, sir.
I realize have an erotic attachment to pie.
Something must have happened in my childhood that I’ve long-since repressed that would explain the pie thing.
I had a mishap while trying a new Nair product yesterday.
For those who don’t know what Nair is, it’s a cream that dissolves your hair and leaves your skin smooth and shiny.
In my case, it left red burning bumps all over my ass and crotch and I’ve been uncontrollably scratching at my melted pubes like I got crabs from a couch-surfing frat boy… But without the night of drunken and ultimately disappointing sex.
It was neat to see coarse, black pubic hair melt in my hands though.
Surprise surprise, although I’ve been blonde my whole life without ever bleaching my hair, the rest of my body doesn’t match. (Although a couple months ago I dyed it brunette for the first time, so now everything somewhat matchy-matches)