My boyfriend is off on a trip, and I have to admit I would long for his presence even if he hadn't practically boned me into a coma just before he left.
Cannot wait to get more of that ... but damn if I also can't wait to get more of just having him around, looking into his eyes, and maybe making him laugh.
Don't make me come get you, dude.
Because I will.
I've been on the body a pretty damn long time, and frankly, it's not getting me any. I think this may be the worst time-on-body to number-of-fucks ratio I've ever had.
(I'm talking hetero fucks here. Ariel's all over me at the drop of a hat, obviously. Goddamn, that girl is dependable.)
Just absolutely not enough dick in me around here lately, people.
Are there reasons? Yeah. Sure. The "reasons-schmeasons" kind of reasons.
I'm giving it one more week.
Then I get bossy.
And then? Mister, you better be ready.
You know, I'm such a fucking amazing geyser of sarcasm, I can't even write a self-shaming blog post about not writing enough blog posts. I mean, I come here, and I comment on my unimpeachably perfect girlfriend's delicious posts, and I look at my archive and see a sad decline from not-very-many to damn-almost-none entries, and I start working myself up to write a self-motivational post about how I've got to do better ...
And what does it sound like?
Just like I'm lampooning Ariel or dear Claire for all the times they've chastised themselves along those lines.
Literally, I cannot razz the ridiculous Elle DeBelle Worthy over how inept she is at maintaining this blog without it coming across as a snarky parody of their sincere musings on that subject.
I don't know if that means I need to work harder at blogging genuine emotions, or pack it in and just skewer everyone and everything with unbridled abandon.
Fuck you, Internet. Who asked you to hold up a mirror for my daft addiction to speaking in irony?
Tomorrow’s our anniversary, and as an early present, he just fucked the hell out of me, twice.
Oh, you poor dumb fucks who aren’t part of this relationship!
You are SO lucky you don’t know what you’re missing.
Update: Four times. And damn straight, I’m bragging about it.
I came here to maybe post something, who knows what kind of shallow, facile bullshit dressed up in irony and garnished with a sprig of haught.
Whoo, though. Saw that last post and almost didn't even start this one.
That's the kind of thing you really want sitting at the top of your blog page when people show up.
Big sincere applause mood for Claire rediscovering her blogging groove. No sarcasm -- seriously, I'm being utterly truthful here. On the other hand, eye rolls and a slow-clap of self-mockery for me dragging myself to Blogger like a hooked fish, out of some need to make sure I'm not getting lost in the shuffle.
Fuck that shit, you know? I should blog when I goddamn well feel like blogging. It's not a fucking competition. Literally nothing around here is a fucking competition unless we decide we're actually going to have a competition of fucking, in which case, I win. Maybe tie with Hettie, that girl is a firecracker in bed.
If I'm going to be competitive, even if it's just me trying to hold myself to a higher standard because I'm seeing great things out of my polys, I'd damn sure better stick to my lane.
Like the fact that I'm on the body right now, instead of Claire, and I one-thousand-percent ROCK this shit. Not saying she isn't smoking hot when it's her turn to run this fine piece of sweltering svelte velvet sex-flesh. She's a stunner off or on it. But stick my face on our mutual corpus deliciosus, and the gods fall slobbering from the peak of Mount Olympus.
Girl gods too.
I'm just that mouth-watering. And let's not even talk about who would win a snark-off.
Should I be proud of this shit?
Yes.
Even if it's not really my fault that the universe endowed me with an unmatchable ability to wear a hot body and destroy minds with my scalpel-sharp sarcasm. In this world, you'd better look at yourself, take hold of what's you, own it, and shout to the heavens how great you feel about it.
See? I'm even fucking amazing at psych advice.
Now somebody come let me ride them to paradise while I've got the keys to the sexmobile.
Uh-huh. I write Aers a nice poem about her green eyes, and little miss Claire is on Twitter ten seconds later boasting what a poet I am and then five seconds after that reminding me that she's got green eyes too and basically demanding her own poem for it.
Whatever you say, lady:
I've had those eyes in my head, you know.
Right in the skull where my own eyes should go.
I've felt them, hooked up to my blond, blue-eyed brain.
I've seen through their pupils.
So let me explain.
I can lay eyes on you.
You can lay eyes on me.
But we both know beforehand just what we will see.
We're a thing, you and I.
Bound by
a
split
corporeality.
You'll know what I'd tell you
before I could speak.
You know when I'm noble.
You know when I'm weak.
So I don't need to write what I see in your gaze.
I don't need to gloss
on the sun's
shining rays.
Or how clouds disperse.
You don't need a verse.
You know.
Better than
I
can say.
You ever look at your boyfriend's old porn stash and say, "Holy fuck, why do you never look at this stuff anymore?"
Goddamn, that boy has some good taste in hot chicks.
So, if Aers can poke through Claire's old files and splash her early pics across the blogosphere, why can't I?
Let's give it a shot.
This one here -- almost straight out of the goddamn box. That's actually it behind her. Look at this stone fucking fox:
