Last night something very disturbing happened. No, it was not my watching of "Jennifer's Body" for a second time, despite the fact that my first viewing made me want to call Diablo Cody up and tell her it was ok, she was still awesome, and I could totally see what she'd been trying to do with it all. No, it was not the realization that my teeth are turning brown and that in itself is motivation to make some mother-fucking changes up in this bee-yatch. (That actually happened on Sunday night, but whatever) No, it wasn't learning that there is such a thing as corn whiskey and people with more disposable income than sense will pay dearly for it.
Nosireebob. Here is the thing that happened and, for some reason, has shaken me to my very core:
I wet the bed.
Not even MY bed. Forthright's bed. Forthright's nice bed with the high thread count sheets and ergonomic pillows. Forthright's bed that he lets me sleep in with him even if all we do is sleep. My really good friend and occasional grade-A fuckbuddy Forthright's bed. Face to the g.d.m.f palm, with a slap so loud it echoes.
I don't know what happened. I wasn't drunk. I've never been so drunk I've wet the bed, anyway. I wasn't, like, sick or anything. I had consumed about a litre of diet soda throughout the evening, but that's hardly unusual for me and has never had such soggy results ever before. Bed-wetting wasn't a problem for me past the age of about four, and even then, I think I was a pretty standard child in that regard.
All I know is I woke up cold and clammy, desperately hoping I'd just sweated a lot. I went to the bathroom, took off my sodden underwear and freaked out very, very quietly. I then went back into the bed room and lay down smack in the middle of the mattress so as to form a wall between Forthright and the incriminating damp patch. I lay awake wondering whether he could smell it, if I could somehow launder, dry and replace his sheets between eight thirty and ten am the following morning, and if not, could I somehow just clean the nasty part and dry it with a hair-dryer? I watched the clock, waiting for the night to be over so I could sort out this gross and confusing issue.
I must have fallen asleep at some point because I woke up to Forthright shifting his sleeping position so he was facing me, legs entangled with me. Normally this would make me a happy camper, but not this morning, no way, Jose. I froze and tried to figure out what to do. Eventually he woke up and smiled at me, at which point it was pretty much beyond me to think of an elaborate ruse. Forthright doesn't have many limits, but he loathes being lied to with the fire of a thousand suns. I don't know if that hatred extends to urine-related mishaps, but I wasn't about to find out.
"Um...so I have something really gross and embarrassing to confess. Last night I...well, I guess I wet myself. And the bed. I'm sorry."
He seemed fairly unpeturbed, to the effect of, "Well, that's ok. It happens. It's no big deal."
"No, it doesn't! Not to me! I wasn't even drunk! I'm sorry."
"It's really ok. Don't worry about it."
And then he went back to sleep for another hour before getting up and going to work, at which point I sprawled out on his side of the bed and slept the sleep of the thoroughly exhausted. Upon waking up, I removed the sheets, left them at the foot of the bed, and went on my merry way.
I am very confused right now. I am also hoping Forthright never tells anyone about this or starts making Depends or Pull-ups jokes, because then I would have to murder him and make ear-muffs out of his curly scalp.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
A downward spiral of Reznor-ian proportions
I've had all sorts of things to write about lately, and no time to do any writing. I've been drinking and doing every stupid thing I can think of and showing up to class ridiculously tired and hungover. Witness my decline into squalor and sloppy, unattractive alcoholism.
I had a little yelling moment this morning when I got lost on the way to a ballet class I wanted to take. It was raining and it seemed like there was no point in ever trying to do anything positive, because I'm completely incapable of doing anything that doesn't destroy me in some way. Why should I work out, eat right, study, spend time with friends, try out new hair styles, check items off my to-do list and read worthy tomes when it's so much easier to ruin my liver, binge on peanut butter, hand work in at the last minute, avoid people's phone calls, rock an ugly, ratty ponytail, achieve absolutely nothing of substance, and voraciously consume copies of Star and Us Weekly?
I think all the booze is messing with my meds. Or maybe the not remembering to take the damn things in the first place. That could be it, too.
Burn-out is getting a knee reconstruction later this week. I haven't seen him much lately. He says he's been sick, but I'm inclined to believe he's found someone more interesting than me to rail. I don't really feel bad about that, although I would have preferred to be the one to get bored with him rather than vice versa.
Same thing with Brick. He texts me here and there, saying how much he wants to see me and wanting to know when we can hang out. His idea of hanging out involves my trekking over to his house and staying over. At least Burn-out comes to me, rather than my having to go to him. I can't be bothered with lengthy CTA trips in the name of getting laid, for the most part. Although a sleepover at Brick's means I can play with his very cute Rottweiler while catching up on Teen Mom and Tosh.0 and eating cookie dough purloined from the fridge.
I went out with a new guy last week, Man-child. He's in the middle of an ugly divorce and has two small children. Neither of these fun-facts are on his OKC profile, and I don't think he'd intended on sharing them but for some reason did. He also looks about twenty, but not in a hot way. Inexplicably, it seemed like a good idea to bring him home, until he dropped the bomb about his ex-wife being the only person he'd ever slept with, How the fuck do I find these losers? Man-child rides a fucking razor scooter, for God's sake. Why did I not just head for the hills as soon as I saw that?
One small dumpling of awesomeness in the otherwise gloopy and burnt-tasting wonton soup of my life is the realization that I am capable of administering my own Brazilian waxes. Considering how much I like picking at things and pulling out stuff with tweezers, it's sort of surprising that it took me this long to figure this out. Also, that's sixty bucks a month I'm saving, yo. Sixty bucks that COULD be going towards the hefty bill that would go along with the smart phone I'm thinking about getting. My shitty-ass flip phone is on its last legs, and I'm sick of being the only person who doesn't get to play Angry Birds while riding the bus.
I miss Forthright. He's out of town this weekend and we didn't hang last weekend. I think I need to spend more time with him and less with the other harem members. In a slightly different mindframe, Forthright would be a very good boyfriend. Right now, he's a very good person to talk to about my dating exploits while we watch crappy movies and eat m and m's. We might be doing that tomorrow. I hope so. I need something good to happen right now.
I had a little yelling moment this morning when I got lost on the way to a ballet class I wanted to take. It was raining and it seemed like there was no point in ever trying to do anything positive, because I'm completely incapable of doing anything that doesn't destroy me in some way. Why should I work out, eat right, study, spend time with friends, try out new hair styles, check items off my to-do list and read worthy tomes when it's so much easier to ruin my liver, binge on peanut butter, hand work in at the last minute, avoid people's phone calls, rock an ugly, ratty ponytail, achieve absolutely nothing of substance, and voraciously consume copies of Star and Us Weekly?
I think all the booze is messing with my meds. Or maybe the not remembering to take the damn things in the first place. That could be it, too.
Burn-out is getting a knee reconstruction later this week. I haven't seen him much lately. He says he's been sick, but I'm inclined to believe he's found someone more interesting than me to rail. I don't really feel bad about that, although I would have preferred to be the one to get bored with him rather than vice versa.
Same thing with Brick. He texts me here and there, saying how much he wants to see me and wanting to know when we can hang out. His idea of hanging out involves my trekking over to his house and staying over. At least Burn-out comes to me, rather than my having to go to him. I can't be bothered with lengthy CTA trips in the name of getting laid, for the most part. Although a sleepover at Brick's means I can play with his very cute Rottweiler while catching up on Teen Mom and Tosh.0 and eating cookie dough purloined from the fridge.
I went out with a new guy last week, Man-child. He's in the middle of an ugly divorce and has two small children. Neither of these fun-facts are on his OKC profile, and I don't think he'd intended on sharing them but for some reason did. He also looks about twenty, but not in a hot way. Inexplicably, it seemed like a good idea to bring him home, until he dropped the bomb about his ex-wife being the only person he'd ever slept with, How the fuck do I find these losers? Man-child rides a fucking razor scooter, for God's sake. Why did I not just head for the hills as soon as I saw that?
One small dumpling of awesomeness in the otherwise gloopy and burnt-tasting wonton soup of my life is the realization that I am capable of administering my own Brazilian waxes. Considering how much I like picking at things and pulling out stuff with tweezers, it's sort of surprising that it took me this long to figure this out. Also, that's sixty bucks a month I'm saving, yo. Sixty bucks that COULD be going towards the hefty bill that would go along with the smart phone I'm thinking about getting. My shitty-ass flip phone is on its last legs, and I'm sick of being the only person who doesn't get to play Angry Birds while riding the bus.
I miss Forthright. He's out of town this weekend and we didn't hang last weekend. I think I need to spend more time with him and less with the other harem members. In a slightly different mindframe, Forthright would be a very good boyfriend. Right now, he's a very good person to talk to about my dating exploits while we watch crappy movies and eat m and m's. We might be doing that tomorrow. I hope so. I need something good to happen right now.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Happy End-times!
They're calling it Snow-pocalypse...because the Illinois media are clever like that.
Yeah, there's snow. Lots of snow. Also wind, and lightning. The house is shaking and the back deck has a four foot high snow drift on it. I dig it. I feel like I'm in Little House on the Prairie (well, On the Banks Of Plum Creek, if we're going to be anal about it) and I need to bring in more logs from the wood pile. Weather is much more exciting in this country than it is in the motherland. Also more solid.
I got mercilessly jostled by a savage gust of wind while walking from the gym to the red line, which caused me to slide about six feet across State Street. It was rad. I squealed, cussed, and was complimented on my antics by another girl crossing the road.
Brick wanted me to come over tonight, but I was all like, hell to the no! This was on account of a) I didn't want to die a lonely, frosty death at the bus stop, and b) I don't want him thinking he can just wiggle his nose a la I Dream of Jeannie and have me magically appear at his house, ready to fuck, cuddle, and listen to him endlessly talk about "his guys" at work. Brick is short for Brick Shithouse, btw, because the lad in question is built like one. He was a selection from the OKC Buffet and looks set to become a regular in Iphigenia's Super Fun Happy Harem. He's three years younger than me and I can't decide if he's genuinely stupid or if he smokes too much pot or if all those concussions from his football days have finally caught up with him. Or maybe I'm just a judgmental troll who shouldn't be some mean about someone who has been nothing but nice to me. Who knows? He's working from home tomorrow because of the blizzard and I have the day off school (ditto), so I might go over to his and study while he works.
I need to study more, I think. I need to read more at the gym and watch less silly music videos. I swear, if I have to watch that "Dutty Love" clip one more time, I'm going to put my foot in Sean Kingston's big fat ass. Not even Nicki Minaj can save that steaming shit-pile of a song. Anyway, I should be absorbed in gendered Spanish nouns, Latin American history, and anxiety disorders while getting my sweat on.
Or, you know, I could spend less time chasing boys and more time with my books. Yeah, right. Because that'll totally happen. *snort*
I have a burlesque show on Thursday that I sort of forgot about. I've kind of dropped off the face of the burly-Q earth since I started school and began getting more regular gigs. It's too much work for too little pay-off, and let's face it, there's only so many ways you can take off your clothes in front of an audience before that shit gets old. This week's effort should be reasonably straightforward. Pick song, pick moves, pick costume, combine all three. Take equipment and costume to venue, perform act, try not to knock anything over, and remember to smile. Use drink tickets, avoid creepy dudes at the bar, get paid, take cab home. Or take cab to Brick's house still wearing costume and blow his sheltered little mind. Hm.
I could use the money. This shoulder issue is lingering far longer than it should have, so I'm teaching less and getting prodded and poked by Dr Jack more than I'd like. It'll be ok eventually, I suppose.
Maybe Burn-out can recommend a physical therapist. Burn-out is this damaged fire fighter I've been out with a couple of times. He's about a million feet tall and walks with a cane because he fucked up his leg...fighting a fire, I suppose. I'll write a full description of him and our rather diverting first hang-out some other time. Right now, though, it's time to hit the hay. Peace, suckahs.
Yeah, there's snow. Lots of snow. Also wind, and lightning. The house is shaking and the back deck has a four foot high snow drift on it. I dig it. I feel like I'm in Little House on the Prairie (well, On the Banks Of Plum Creek, if we're going to be anal about it) and I need to bring in more logs from the wood pile. Weather is much more exciting in this country than it is in the motherland. Also more solid.
I got mercilessly jostled by a savage gust of wind while walking from the gym to the red line, which caused me to slide about six feet across State Street. It was rad. I squealed, cussed, and was complimented on my antics by another girl crossing the road.
Brick wanted me to come over tonight, but I was all like, hell to the no! This was on account of a) I didn't want to die a lonely, frosty death at the bus stop, and b) I don't want him thinking he can just wiggle his nose a la I Dream of Jeannie and have me magically appear at his house, ready to fuck, cuddle, and listen to him endlessly talk about "his guys" at work. Brick is short for Brick Shithouse, btw, because the lad in question is built like one. He was a selection from the OKC Buffet and looks set to become a regular in Iphigenia's Super Fun Happy Harem. He's three years younger than me and I can't decide if he's genuinely stupid or if he smokes too much pot or if all those concussions from his football days have finally caught up with him. Or maybe I'm just a judgmental troll who shouldn't be some mean about someone who has been nothing but nice to me. Who knows? He's working from home tomorrow because of the blizzard and I have the day off school (ditto), so I might go over to his and study while he works.
I need to study more, I think. I need to read more at the gym and watch less silly music videos. I swear, if I have to watch that "Dutty Love" clip one more time, I'm going to put my foot in Sean Kingston's big fat ass. Not even Nicki Minaj can save that steaming shit-pile of a song. Anyway, I should be absorbed in gendered Spanish nouns, Latin American history, and anxiety disorders while getting my sweat on.
Or, you know, I could spend less time chasing boys and more time with my books. Yeah, right. Because that'll totally happen. *snort*
I have a burlesque show on Thursday that I sort of forgot about. I've kind of dropped off the face of the burly-Q earth since I started school and began getting more regular gigs. It's too much work for too little pay-off, and let's face it, there's only so many ways you can take off your clothes in front of an audience before that shit gets old. This week's effort should be reasonably straightforward. Pick song, pick moves, pick costume, combine all three. Take equipment and costume to venue, perform act, try not to knock anything over, and remember to smile. Use drink tickets, avoid creepy dudes at the bar, get paid, take cab home. Or take cab to Brick's house still wearing costume and blow his sheltered little mind. Hm.
I could use the money. This shoulder issue is lingering far longer than it should have, so I'm teaching less and getting prodded and poked by Dr Jack more than I'd like. It'll be ok eventually, I suppose.
Maybe Burn-out can recommend a physical therapist. Burn-out is this damaged fire fighter I've been out with a couple of times. He's about a million feet tall and walks with a cane because he fucked up his leg...fighting a fire, I suppose. I'll write a full description of him and our rather diverting first hang-out some other time. Right now, though, it's time to hit the hay. Peace, suckahs.
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