I have a million errands to run today. I know I haven't been online in awhile but it's because I'm busy and I'm important. I shouldn't have to tell you that twice.
I am sitting here totally lying in bed because I am hungover.
I had way too many cosmopolitans last night. It was then implied to me by a very dear friend (soon to be not so dear, and also a person who happens to be a h8er) that I am potentially what people might call a "cougar".
Really? Me?
A cougar?
First of all, that is some high horseshit right there. I have lived my entire life branded by some man, therefore have never had the presence of mind to go trolling for some all-night nookie among the infant boys of America. I wouldn't know the first thing about what cougars do, or what anybody who even dates does. I did go out last night though, and maybe I even looked sexy, but I went with friends (one of them being the guy who inserts tiny UFOs into each of his paintings, don't get me started) and it was harmless fun.
I think in order to be a cougar you have to be going to places, scouting young boys. When I say young I guess I mean college age or thereabouts. I picture cougars as women with weird extensions in their hair, or else spiral perms straight out of the Mariah-early-90s. Their nails are all did, maybe they're wearing leather or something (probably on their asses) and sitting at the bar sloshing away at their martini, eyeing the entire place for boytoys. I also envision cougars as going out in packs, because perhaps then they feel more empowered poaching young boys.
And are cougars easy? I mean, they're hot for it, right? Doesn't that make them easy?
And is that what my friend was calling me? Or was my friend just calling me old!
Whatever the case, I have no idea because wow, I am not a cougar. First of all, douchenozzle friend who intimated this and who is also just sad because she didn't get to come out with me and my many many non-college-aged men friends: I am too young to be a cougar. Second, I do not go to bars to poach wee boys even though sure, when I am there maybe they try to poach me, but I do not try to poach kids.
Were I looking, which I am not, kids would be of no interest to me, anyway, because let's face it, it's about the lay, right? It's about getting some young thang into bed and keeping him there all night long because young boys, as is the rumor, can do that. I mean I get it. I get why sexually charged women of all ages are trying to pull young boys. But me? I'm not about that. Sex is fun and all, but you can have great sex with all kinds of men, not just twenty year old men. And what about the talking? Young boys can't talk. Well, unless it's about their Wii or their wang. That bores me.
So then: how could anybody ever think I could be a cougar? Do you think I could be?
I know how you'd better answer. And you'd better not even try to answer, Grant.
I used to have dance offs with you people. I used to dance around on my deck with all that long hair. I used to drink martinis and opine about political leaders and stem cells being shoved right up my ass if I wanted them to be. I used to be A LOT OF THINGS but lately I've been flat and it's because WELL HELLO, life has been sucktastic but I mean it, I am getting over that. I'm going out tonight. I don't care if my belly is bandaged, who will know? (Besides you.) And I am going to have fun! And I am going to start my life right now! This instant! I am feeling positive! I am forcing Moose to feel positive too!
Expectations are the sole reason you will die miserable, disappointed and alone
I try not to have a lot of expectations, mainly because people who have a lot of expectations (say, Fundamentalist Baptists who think women should never wear pants) often get disappointed. Being disappointed does not feel particularly good and beyond even that, leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth that never really leaves.
In other words, if someone doesn't do something you expected them to do, well, the next time you expect them to do it, do you really really expect them to do it? I mean, really? Probably not, right? You'll just be thinking about all those other times they totally didn't do it. So are you really just waiting for them to fail? Because lots of times I sit around the world waiting for people to fail and wow, they never fail at that.
But see, I am wondering if some expectations are mandatory. Like, is it wrong to expect care from a loved one when you are ill, or at the bare minimum, interest? Because to me this trumps all other things that could ever be important in the history of ever. For example, if my dog Moose suddenly became incontinent, not only would I clean up what I'd anticipate to be an unholy mess but I'd also outfit him in rad looking adult diapers just so he'll feel loved and comfortable. He might not expect this of me (well, because he's a dog), but I expect this of me. It's called decency, people. And I expect a bare minimum of decency from others, particularly from people who claim to love and care about me.
This, I think, is my biggest problem.
I have been let down too many times. Even though I've scaled my expectations way back (for example, keeping it to expecting the sun to rise and possibly set, or expecting someone to care when you are hurting, at least enough to hold your hand or ask after you), I am still reeling from all the (really rather) appropriate expectations I've had in the past which were not met. Maybe this makes me bitter.
Which I don't feel. I don't feel bitter. I feel jovial, especially when I'm on oxycodone.
In any case, I think from now on I am going to eliminate the "he or she ought to care if I am in the hospital or getting injected with the most macabre needles imaginable, right between my ribs" part and just stick with the sun rising and hopefully also setting part. Because the two latter expectations seem kind of full-proof, until of course 12/12/12 when the Mayan apocalypse will kill us all.
My ultimate point?
Tomorrow is promised to no one, particularly if you're Mayan.
I'm pretty sure I need to take a road trip which doesn't involve roads, but rather air, as in flying.
Like, I should pick a few states to fly into and all of you that live in those states should totally put me up and show me the best time ever, because God, where I am, good times follow!
You can take me to your favorite steak houses, for example, at which time I will refuse to eat your steak and order only seasonal vegetables lightly salted, simply to beguile you. And then you will order me the most fabulous lemon drop on the menu only to have me scoff loudly that you ordered just one and not five, as a woman of my peculiar inclination prefers. And then you'd order me five, of course, and I would drink them all, and you would drink too (just not any of my lemon drops) and I am telling you, this could totally work!
I should start on the west coast, obviously, and then work my way through the flyover states, then land somewhere in the full east. Some of you in Jersey and New York might require extra time because you and your cities are, as it turns out (and this goes without saying:), very rad.
She rises from her bed, wobbles a little bit, maybe even falls down right on the panties she dropped on the floor the night before, but she lives! Oh God who are we kidding! It's not like I wear panties ever!
But I live, you lucky bastards! I live to live another day, and probably another day after that, scars and all, completely oxycodoned out, but it means I'm here! And that I have life! That is my point!
I feel very lovey when I am on drugs and after I've had surgery. Specifically, I want everybody to love me and tell me how great the scar will look in oh, about a year, especially after I tattoo an extension cord over the entire length of it. God Crys, the extension cord is a great idea! Make sure the plug part points right to your ass! You're brilliant! And fuck, you're alive! I'm so glad you're alive!
And you are, aren't you? You're glad. Lucky bastards! With me, the party never stops!
I have my surgery today, people of the internet. 1pm Central time; say a prayer for me, oh ye who pray. I'm sure it will be fine and even better than that, it's going to be the "last time" I have to go through this (in the name of Jesus). I will have to go back for a follow up or two and then I think I am "done done done." So, while I'm scared of all the needles that will be shoved beneath my ribs and into my hips (you heard me right), I am also quite heartened that this could very possibly be the beginning of the end.
So, I feel scared and a little shaky, but I'm about to take two valium and two oxys and then I will feel nothing at all but fierce love for the entire world plus Africa.
Tell me the truth, truthful people: have any of you freaks ever scoured Craig's List personal ads and then, gasp!, hooked up with someone because of it? Does that even happen?
I am writing a short (erotica) story involving Craig's List and the only thing I have to go on is the very ricockulous personal ads I've been reading of late. They are retarded and honestly, if I were looking to meet someone I cannot conceive how I might do that on that site. Everyone seems borderline mongoloid. Everything seems terribly base. Very down and dirty.
I guess my ultimate question is whether anything meaningful can come from meeting a person off CL. I guess if people can meet in bars and have something meaningful, it could happen with CL too. I mean, right?
Anyway, ya'alls can post anonymously if you're too embarrassed to tell me your dirty whore stories using your real birth name.
But don't be embarrassed. I'm just doing research, God.
So I think I am going to try to be gainfully employed in 2009. I know, radical concept, right? But necessary. I've got to figure this shit out on my own. Of course this will only work if I can, like, move my body properly and all. And am healthy.
Tall order, no?
Not sure what I'm going to do. I will never go back to insurance because hello? Bodily Injury claim adjudication only takes place on the seventh layer of Dante's Hell. I would rather street walk on the south side or show my boobs on the internet for money. Hey, that last one might not be such a bad idea.
I have two erotica pieces ready to go and I will try and sell those. They're very ... well, erotic. I need someone to proof them. Someone who won't judge me and start singing "The freaks come out at night". I think they're good stories, actually. I certainly had fun writing them, if you know what I mean.
What do you recommend I do? Circus performer? Lounge singer? Army recruiter? Acrobat?
I really have no idea. Maybe street walking is not such a bad idea, after all.
@ 
