Perfect morning. The sort of weather you'd want to lie in bed all day for and do nothing but be stroked, and spooned often.
My sister's back, as of this morning.
The person who coined the phrase mind over matter must not possibly, and could not have been, under any conceivable circumstance, ever human. I can safely say that I'm feeling a great deal much better now, physically, and my mental state is a great deal improved. That is to say I no longer feel like I am being exorcized and that my bodily breakdown was as a result of my petty sins.
The seizures are most certainly gone and have proven to be not hereditary (medical side effect; if you have plans to propose to me and are secretly charting my medical history) and that the relationship aspect of my life has promised to fall into glorious mundane-ity with the return of the practically sensible, partially ostensible romantic Mr. Big. After a few days of “I’ll find out what exactly it is you want and give it to you, then you’ll have to give me what I want” from the Saccharine machine, I’m thoroughly glad for a “Am I going to see you this weekend? I miss you and everything that you stand for.” Of which I presume 90% is sex and 10% a penchant for verbiage.
The former had the nerve to tell my girlfriend that I was terribly morbid in a childish sort of way (I probably am, but we don’t like out faults reiterated by people we think are terribly childish themselves, do we?) and then try to fix it up thereafter by saying he was ‘only joking’. *shrugs* get real. At times I really do think he was playing us in. Crazy mind-fucker.
“Why did you ask her to go to
“Oh come on. If you think those messages were worth anything… I’ll stop contacting her if you want me to.”
Oh come on yourself luv. The girlfriend and I are at the stage where we can safely call each other sisters, and abuse the fact thoroughly. Because we’ve called each other every other horrid thing already. Well, she’s called me a stripper years ago when I was sitting on the window-still with my blouse unbuttoned on a day where the humidity was particularly charming. For the most part to the benefit of the male fare, both local and non-local alike.
Anyway, jealousy over you would be absolutely the last possible thing on my mind where she’s concerned. Women do suffer an unnecessarily fierce loyalty to their species, especially when it pertains to men. Well, I do, anyway. I might sulk about it a great deal, but I’ll get over it. And by then, the guy would have been gone anyway, from your life and mine. Amen.
Will be up to more photographic nonsense tomorrow.<>I have no idea why they always tell you not to wear underwear to sleep the night before you do a fetish shoot. They say it ensures that there are no lines when you arrive at the studio. Well, then am I to reach your place on public transport with no panties on? I don’t quite fancy the idea, really. And besides I don’t see much of a difference when I do wear underwear and when I don’t. Personally, I think it’s just their idea of being naughty. Which I suppose is mildly amusing, but starts to get terribly tiresome after awhile.
And while on the subject, I must entreat you to Terry Richardson. His is truly an art unto its own. He has officially managed to de-eroticize the nude form. The bastard.
To put simply, here we are, with all our efforts, trying to incite some form of erection, oh-I-meant- reaction, with a combination of a low-carb diet, expensive photographic equipment, 12 miles a week on track, state of the art lighting blabla, and you ruin it all with a point an shoot! One wonders what this says about human behaviour.
I seriously can think of too much to say on the subject, and so had better stop at this moment.
Extremely Frightful Night
My mother had to be a bitch and woke me up in the middle of the night by turning off my air-conditioner, telling me I'd get even more sick if I had it on. I told her my brains would fry if she turned it off. Then I don't know how it happened, or even if she was to blame in the first place for waking me up, but I started lapsing into a series of seizures.
I didn't know what the fuck was happening, it felt like I was being exorcized, and I just wished I could die, because being totally out of control of your own body is a very horrible thing indeed. I spent an hour shivering, suffering muscle contractions and praying for respite because God was supposed to love me and this wasn’t supposed to be happening.
And if it was the devil (all right, so I’m quite irrationally spiritual in certain respects) he shouldn’t be having such a hold over me because he is the fallen one and fallen beings aren’t supposed to have power over ones that have the favour of God (which is not to say exclusive to people who believe in God; But the fact that human beings have not been expressively condemned by God, ensures that we have more power then the one that has.)
Religious rationalizations aside, I was one really scared kid. So scared I was wondering if it would be a sensible thing to do to call for an ambulance. Of course, before I’d call for an ambulance, I’d want to make sure if it made sense to do so, so I asked the lady on the line (Believe it or not, I was actually still capable of sane conversation between incontrollable bouts of muscular convulsion) I asked her if it was necessary, or if she knew any other alternative means or whatever. Because I seriously didn’t want to leave my bed. Apparently not.
Which makes me wonder about two things. Firstly, how can hospital staff manning the 911 hot-line possible be so ignorant. Secondly, were they trying to rip people off? I don’t think seizures are all that uncommon, and surely people couldn’t be calling for a damn ambulance every time they had an attack.
The girlfriend’s sister was involved in the mildest accident possible recently when the SBS bus she was on collided with a –insert colossal vehicle of choice- and there was absolutely nothing wrong with her aside from a sprained arm and they insisted on putting her onto an ambulance on a stretcher! She went out for dinner promptly that evening at you local generic barbecue cum steamboat restaurant.
I texted Mr. G. knowing that he knows about shit like that, but he didn’t get back to me till I was fast asleep and sweltering my brains out under a pile of blankets, thankfully after regaining some control of my limbs.
I don’t suppose he could have done much anyway. But I was so horribly scared out of my wits I just wanted someone to tell me everything would be all right. An Overdose of Panadol was all that was needed, eventually. I must have swallowed half a strip.
You know how sometimes you look at your fingers and wonder how its so amazing they move simply because your mind tells them to move? And then you will them to move, but they don’t move because you’re pretending that your mind’s stop having the capacity to mobilize them; Last night felt like that. Only, at points, I wasn’t quite able to make a distinction between when my mind was pretending or when it simply felt too drugged and too fried to send a signal that was clear enough to any part of my body.
Mr. Saccharine text me again this morning. Terribly annoying. I don’t know what kind of fucking game he’s playing at, but I’ve decided I’m in far too bad a mood to amuse him any longer.
Did I dream of you? I was having visions of a journey through hell, so thank you very much for your interest in my nighttime hallucinations.
The girlfriend met him at the bar the other day and he told her that I kept on sending him masochistic texts. Well, stop being stupid, I am masochistic, and you keep sending me such sweet nonsense I’m really just trying to force you out of that retarded state of mind where you think every girl Is willing to oblige you just because your nice. Ugh! Your so saccharine it makes me sick goddamnit.
You tell me my girlfriend’s uptight about things behind her back and tell her that I’m masochistic behind my back. Look, that kind of stupid game is for high-school wanna-be jocks who warm the bench, not men who are supposed to be grown up!
My stomach’s sick enough as it is.
Stayed at home all day having comfy conversations with pretty Polynesian women.
Well, no that's not horrid; What's horrid is the fact that I have a stomach flu and the only occupation I am currently capable of is stripping to my panties and getting my maid (now more like my personal masseuse and juice grinder –apple and ginger’s really quite lovely-) to give me hour long full body massages. She’s quite good at it too, and does it in exchange for my stories. Which really is the only price I can afford at the moment, between cab rides to the doctor’s and outrageous treatment fees for drugs and injections.
Seem to be having a fair number of encounters with Filipina women lately, and for once in my life, they’re starting to become pleasant. The past of having them as totalitarian baby-sitters whose only altruistic behaviour afflicted upon us was to feed us a lot of milky desserts chock full of yam is over.
Now they still feed me milky desserts chock full of yam, but with loads of good conversation instead of chastising –stop hitting your brother/ don’t play in the mud/ you’ve got shit on your feet I told you not to play in the rain/
Talking about breasts is a great deal more fun, really.
She told me mine were quite small, and I told her hers were too, relative to the size of her gut. We had an argument over the fact that the colour of nipple was not wholly subjected to the colour of a person’s skin. And with no relation whatsoever that could possible pertain to our conversation, she was rather keen on the idea of showing me her nipples. But another time, perhaps. Maybe when I’m working on my ambition of turning into a fetish photographer myself. (Look, a couple of hours pays her more then a month’s wages, and she did seem rather amused, and turned on, by the idea!)
Ah she is quite young, not much older then me. The youngest my parents have employed so far, and boy am I glad for it.
***<>Singaporean kids really do have certain entrenched prejudices towards Filipinas, because most of them have been their bosses since they were, well, born. It’s terribly annoying.
Not serving someone at HMV just because she speaks with a tangalogue laden accent is just so wrong. She’s your customer, if she listens to everything you said as a child, wouldn’t it be time to return the favour?
I won’t deny I had similar partiality towards the treatment of people we so often deem come from the lower rungs of the social ladder in their countries. I don’t dare deny that I’ve rid myself thoroughly of them either, but talking to them and finding out that they are just as human, with a taste for excitement, endowed with sex drives and curiosity for the unknown and opinions on things you’d think are beyond the comprehension of their Mills and Boon literary diet? It’s really quite worth the time. My eyes feel opened.
We are both eager anticipating the screening of Oprah’s interview with
The only safe position right now is the one in which I recline in my fake IDEO designed chaise longue.
Face up to reality. What’s that supposed to imply? Look it in the eye and beat it up? Oh please. You might win, but you’ll come out really battered. A stronger person, perhaps, but a really scarred one.I’d rather run my legs off.
I’d get a better figure too, for my efforts. And by the time I reach the end of the road and eventually have to face up to it, it’ll only be to say ‘so long, and thanks for all the fish’. That way I go to heaven with no broken bones or flesh or mind.Oh, and by the by, running is so much less painless then fighting, and so much more of a pleasure too.
And if you’re still not convinced why evasion is the best way about it, you’re a looser. Because advocating facing up clearly shows a want for an imagination.xoxox
Sometimes, no amount of trying to see it from the other perspective will amount up to anything whatsoever.
Nearly about the middle of the night, I decided that the onset of insomnia had come fully upon me and that sleep was not going to be a possible occurrence till With that as a primary excuse, I popped by the Mitre for a couple of drinks and bumped into Mr. Saccharine and a bunch of the other regulars chilling out in a hidden garden I’d never seen before (Great! A secret garden within a secret compound, all my escapist childhood fantasies come true - For the matter The Secret Garden and The Little Princess were two of my favourite classics as a child. The whole idea of a world separate from reality, yet still physically entrenched in it always had had it’s way with me-)
We hung out around the garden till the lot of them decided they wanted to go to the BFD (whatever that’s suppose to initialize) and I thought I was sufficiently exhausted enough to go home and sleep somewhat. But after some manner of trite persuasive oratory on Mr. S’s part, I dropped by his place; and gave the feminist in me a rather fine shock.“You FIX 10 000 piece puzzles? So the whole saccharine (I’m patient/ romantic/ domesticated) act’s not a stage-up after all.”
Anyone who fixes more then 100 piece puzzles most certainly are Simply So. I had always thought fixing puzzles were akin to folding a million paper cranes and pain-staking hanging them in a deliberate random order on a tree for the current infatuation of choice, as seen in stupid Chinese drama serials. *shudder*
Ah, but I shouldn’t make fun of him. He was terribly nice, and we sat around on the couch for ages till I fell asleep listening to him talk about
I woke up unnaturally early in the morning and made him wake up with me, which he did without much complain. And the first thing on the local paper was this. What the hell? I’d like to think I’m one of the world’s most empathetic people, if not in action, at least in thought –but what use is being compassionate in thought? I don’t think there’s any worth really, but better a good intent then an evil one. That’s the Singaporean way after all, an opinion on everything but the will to act on nothing.-
I read through the article and tried to imagine, what if I was an insurgent. I suppose it’s a rather juvenile thing to do. Imagining your someone else, but it’s entertaining. And it helps you to understand the people you think you hate.
Even if it’s extreme wrong-headedness to picture the person who said you were possessed of a stupidity stemming from the lack of self-control to have said all that, being so void of anything else to do (having been just dumped by her fiancée at the later a few weeks ago and somehow managing to gain a hundred pounds in a fortnight).
I can see why they are doing all these nonsense, but no amount of trying to sympathize can get the phrase ‘I hate them’ out of my head. I hate their religion and everything it stands for. But before you come upon me with a barrage of prejudiced emails, let me say that it is not the One True God I hate, but just the God of all the people I hated. How can my God be the same as that of the person who tells me she’d be sending me to hell?
It’s a fine frustrating piece of work, and good luck to the people who have to solve it. Is it not possible to work out a compromised solution? Can compromised solutions ever really work in the first place among nations at war when they can’t even seem to be reached by nations who are tolerant of each other.
But the insurgents do have the upper-hand. Carrying on with all the mindless killing and propagation of fear might be effective in throwing a lot of nations out of Iraq, but eventually, the US army will remain until things are done the Bush way; or until a second term is confirmed as something only possible in a alternate reality, like the sort you read about in SF novels. (And would them leaving be a good or bad thing come the situation present during the election period?)
All right, presume they do stop the kidnappings, but retained holding whole nations hostage under the threat of ‘columns of rigged cars [that] will not stop’ [exploding]. I actually imagine that might be effective in getting the world to listen to what they want. Those people truly know how to use fear, and raise nationalistic passions; I believe that many people, the general populace, the vulgar horde, people like me, would nod out heads fervently if the insurgents so much so as suggest a compromise.Look, they are behaving like children, and the rest of the world’s behaving like mothers on menopause. If the kids would stop chanting for a cookie and give a reason why they should be given the cookie, and prove half-way that they should be given it (i.e., stop kidnapping so many people), and if the mothers were to listen and accede on the condition that they do their homework and eat their dinner after… Don’t tell me it’s a stupid analogy, it isn’t. Human behaviour is predictable, and our relationships are all ruled by similar sentiments, whether on a domestic or global scale.
I shall shut up now and promise to write about things that are more preferential to a person of my caliber tomorrow. Which mean’s it back to the sex, the self-chastising and the continual attempt at atonement from the fourth of the 7 Deadly Sins.
Wandered around quite a bit, ate too much Pistachio ice-cream (it’s my favourite flavour this month; Gourmet Ice-cream is one of my biggest vices, and I have come to the resolution that I shall only eat Gelare or Movenpick.) Eventually found myself at Emerald Hill. For some reason I walked into No. 5, perhaps hoping that by some cosmic quantum quirk, or quantum cosmic quirk, I’d bump into the G-Spot. No such luck. Ended up at the al-fresco dining area just outside rouge instead, at a cute-guy spotting.
Went up to him and asked if he was waiting for anyone. Unfortunately yes, his best buddy and a blind date called Rosie, apparently. (She was quite the Posie; a pudding and pie sort of girl in black and denim with nothing interesting to say.)
So I’m an eavesdropper, now you know! But everybody eavesdrops. Especially on me, and good on them because I tell great stories. Nothing beats the time I recited lines from a play in which my character was suffering from colon cancer (it was really supposed to be liver cancer, but the director got a little carried away with the alliteration, and no one realized the mistake for many rehearsals.)
Sat alone for a long while reading Blue of Noon, trying my best to concentrate and seem like a literary buff. I knew he was watching me, and felt like I had to prove I’m not some ditzy, desperate girl. I’m not, really, just needed to talk to someone last night. Well, I suppose you could see that as desperation. Crazy, friendless girl in a brocade dress and face paint screaming silently look-at-me.
There happened to be a mildly attractive fellow sitting on the other side of the little street that ran through the bistro and I’d notice him for quite a long while already. And I kept on thinking, go to him? Try to catch his gaze and wink? That stupid cute guy keeps glancing at me, if I hook up with the one across, I’d totally come across as an SPG out hunting, but I’m really not, Oh I’m so fucking bored and I feel so lonely and I need to talk.
So from the strange mechanism of my childish mind I drew a note (replicated below) and got the waitress to pass it to him.
It says, Dislocation is my least favourite feeling, want to join me in brooding on that?
I don’t quite know what we talked about, but apparently we both didn’t like, or finished, Michel Houellebecq’s Atomized. He was here on business for the first time in a long time and thought that the Singaporean brand of efficiency was absolutely bizarre (They time you down when you cross the road? Isn’t that taking the want for precision a little to the extreme!)
Our conversation fluctuated between the mundane (The Economist’s article on the city’s totalitarian Lee® brand of governance) to the subliminally erotic, to the out-rightly crass (Teenage lesbians, threesomes and how Germans were ‘boring but effective’)
It got late, and as much as I didn’t like pulling out on him, I did. With the lamest possible phrase too.
“I’ve seen more of the country in the past three hours with you then I did in the past week… I wonder what sights the next three would churn out.”
“Uh… I have to go to church in a few hours.”
British men are strange, but in a way I really enjoy. They keep saying they’re absolutely vulgar and that the only activity they do outside work that could possibly be of any interest would be to get drunk and behave really badly. Well, I’ve never seen them when they hang with their mates, but they’re always insanely well behaved around women. Maybe it’s a really mis-guided opinion on my part, but I think I must probably have had the least physical contact with them.
I don’t know really. Is it the way they’re brought up, or some kink in their society that disapproves, more strongly (in relative terms), of vulgar, promiscuous behaviour? The ones I know never ‘come on too strong’; and by happenstance, when they do admit they want to fuck your brains out and have been wanting to for a long time (only you don’t know it because they’ve treated the whole affair up till then with unnecessarily excessive reticence), they do it with the candour of, oh-I –don’t-know/don’t want to say it; basically, they don’t get very frank until the last possible moment.
But perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps I’m used to vulgar, crass, Tarzan/Jane expressions. Used to the kissing of unknown lips and the squeezing by unknown hands. Which is really not something I’m bitter about, or have much of an opinion on, for that matter.
“Well, so what’s it going to be? Your business, that is.”
He turns around to stare at me right in the eyes with a sort of glazed, weeded look.
“I’m afraid I must give you my apologies for not going to tell you. You see, it’s terribly classified information.”
I stare at him, mildly shock. Was that a rebuff? I was simply trying to be friendly. Or just being bored. Either way meant the same thing.
“You see, the information’s highly confidential. It’s so secret I haven’t found the key to unlocking it’s proposal yet. It’s been stuck at the back of my mind and no amount traveling around Asia has helped any-what, (and even the stresses of the most inefficient lavatory systems have proved to be useless.)
But if you have any suggestions whatsoever…”
I look about for some escape and see a bunch of the horrible trash that’s of late been touted as raw, real, social scrutiny under the best-seller’s shelf.
“Oh gosh. I’m absolutely vacuous when it comes to rubbish like that. Not at all the entrepreneur, but I do think the Invisible Trade is rather lucrative at the moment. Well, I do hope to see you on Fortune 100 in a few months," (or at least among the ranks of Heidi Fleiss).***
By the way, I do not really think the book is intensely repugnant. It's just mildly so, I wouldn't want to give it That much credit. It’s god-awfully boring, and there’s nothing that’s being said that hasn’t been said before. If you really want to know what the Invisible trade is, the G-Spot suggests that you talk to the prostitutes at
I am sure Gerrie Lim did really talk to those girls, but how interesting can their views be when reiterated by someone else other then themselves? The problem with the book’s that it’s terribly void of feeling. Put shortly, it’s nothing more then a tease, an attempt to shock and to roll in the cash. It tells a lot about the girls, yet nothing about them.I avidly wait Belle Du Jour’s novel. But of course, in the meanwhile, the one by Tracy Quan will prove an excellent lunchtime read too.
He’s selling himself as romantic,
On the display casement,
Of a Nokia LCD.
So! The SPG’s spicy booklist for the week is as follows.Blue of .
A Lesson in Punctuation
One of the reasons oftentimes cited as rationale for dating ang mo would be their proficiency for English. This is of course a gross misconception, and I know so because I virtually had to rewrite all of the Boy’s application letters while he was job searching earlier in the year.
Mr. Saccharine (The guy I met at the Mitre’s pub sometime back) has been sending me a barrage of messages that leave an after-taste twice as cloy as Splenda (sweetener of choice recommended for people on Atkins- why do they call them artificial sweeteners anyway? Sweeteners are sweeteners. If it’s not naturally in the food then it has to added on, so technically anything that sweetens a food that’s not naturally sweet enough already, is artificial.)
Sometime about mid-afternoon, while I was contemplating on the fullness of my tummy and wondering if I deserved a Milkyway, Mr. S texted and left me feeling like I had to thank him for changing my mind about the chocolate. One super sweet thing at lunchtime is sufficient, really.
You have SMS!: I believe in shower and keep not spoil and toss.
You have sent SMS!: How have the spoils been of late then? Any trouble making up your mind on who first to toss. Perhaps it’s time for Detox, showers are too inefficient.
I was rather shocked when I got that. Shower and keep not, spoil and toss? But that went against the whole image you were trying to impress about yourself upon me. Wow, thank you for the honesty.
Apparently, due to the draught of punctuation apparent in his texts, I had mis-read it. The situation as interpreted by me was as follows: Wake up in the morning thinking, shit, who’s the chick in my bed. Get her to shower while getting a scrub down yourself, because you feel filthy that you’d binged on sex once again.
Shower and keep not, spoil her then toss her. Fantastic.
Thank god I’ve never met anyone like that.
Well wait, once. It was the one-night stand. (I must stress on the The. As in singular.) Local. Didn’t even bother with letting me shower before he sent me home. Oh but then we did it at his married. sister’s apartment; of course he couldn’t let her know he’d been secretly using the guest room for such immoral purposes. But I’m sure the Buddha in the hall tattletale-d on him later.
I supposed he got mildly alarmed at my reply, because, apparently shower and keep not spoil and toss was supposed to read with a comma before the not, not after. (For visual effect: Shower and keep, not spoil and toss.) So the meaning’s entirely different now. Shower with gifts and keep the girl, not spoil her and leave her for the dump.
Since we’re looking though my rather colourful cell-phone inbox today:
Message from the G-spot informing me I’d left my clothes at his place. (I changed into something else. Intentionally forgetting to wear your panties is one thing, intentionally forgetting to wear your clothes so you can leave them behind is another issue altogether.)
“Well, no I didn’t They're really my sister’s. But that’s of no consequence. Just don’t use them as jizz rags. I’m sure I’m better.”
Oh, I really know how to demean myself, don’t I. But ah, I suppose it makes sense when you reserve such self-humiliation for someone you can feel like going down on your knees for.
So I ran faster, but it caught me here
Yes my loyalties turned
Like my ankle In the seventh. grade
Running after the rain
He said you're really an ugly girl
But I like the way you play
Holding on to his picture
Dressing up every day
I wanna smash the faces
Of those beautiful boys
So you can make me cum
that doesn't make you Jesus
I have resigned myself to the fact that I always get what I want. It might seem like a good thing at face value, after all, who doesn’t like it her way all the time? But as the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.
Late last night I started feeling like I wanted to be pathetic. To give myself up, fuck myself off and sacrifice my flower-fresh corpse to an unknown devil. (Preferably of the white variety). But it was too late. and I was too lazy.
Had thought of giving Mr. Grant a ring first, but subsequently admonished myself against it. After all, at no fault of his, he’d rain-checked the last couple of times I suggested a tete a tete. And as much as I hate to make it sound this way, it felt like rejection, and there was only so many times in a week I can tolerate that. But all that thought was unnecessary, apparently. He called me this time, and asked me out for a drink with a friend of his freshly down from NY, of which whatever relationship that existed between them I was, and still am, rather oblivious to.
Caught a cab, had a perfectly retarded conversation with the driver on the institution of marriage and The thing that has now become what the island is characterized by. After many reiterations of the phrase ‘The government very convention’ (whatever that’s supposed to mean) I finally got out and got to the G-spot and his pretty Filipina acquaintance
We had a pointless, silly discussion about Carrie Bradshaw’s steady income (Apparently it’s only possible to live off writing a column about sex in Manhattan the way Carrie lives it if you discount, entirely, essential luxuries like fine wine and Manolo Blahnik shoes) and about how the show itself was going to be screened in Singapore, with censorship. Uncannily, someone had emailed me slightly earlier in the day about how out how he thought it was quite the paradox that Sex and the City should be censored, even as the government tries to raise birth rates; I do not see the connection.
Nightcaps at his place.
The girl kept on asking me if she was infringing on my space, and continually told me that if I wanted her to leave, she would. She was, afterall, not intending to be anyone’s paramour.
I told her whatever. If she wanted to stay , it was none of my business; it wasn’t my house and it was his body she was wanting, not mine. And besides, I was too tired to care.
Oh, but I never bothered much over the issue in the first. If he wanted to sleep with someone, it’s his decision. I’m not his mother, or his wife, or even girlfriend, for the matter. And a huge part of the reason why we work out so well is precisely because of that.
By not lying and evading stupid little things we cannot do anything about (like how he’s the way he is and I’m the way I am, and so we will be till the end of time, or of our lives, which so ever comes first.), we’ve a lot more energy and sanity left for other things of greater import.
Recall the time I mentioned, during one of my regular bouts of masochism, about the psychological effects of seeing your guy make out with another? It’s the emotional equivalent to… oh I don’t know, the sexual bliss attained by some people through asphyxiation, perhaps. Well, I nearly had my little wish last night, but I politely passed. It just felt really fucked up to see him kiss someone else.
So whatever. It was a threesome where I participated as a wooden log, or dummy prop, which ever you prefer.
I simply snuck under the sheets and promptly went to sleep.
He woke me up after she was sent home and cuddled me back to the sandman.
Can’t be bothered with trying to find the post at the moment, but I had mentioned previously that there was a great deal of satisfaction to be had by being made jealous and being comforted thereafter. And boy, was I so comforted and snug and hopelessly drop dead tired that I forgot to close my mouth and ended up drooling all over his arm.
Icky. I know.xoxox
I love legs. I never realized how attractive a gorgeous, tanned, well worked-out pair on a guy was, until today. And quite bizarrely, it was through the perusal of this month’s Popular Science magazine that made me come to the conclusion. (Look, if you know what I’m talking about and are laughing your ass off, stop it already. The guy parading the NASA technology based system for muscle injury really does have a nice pair of legs. But I’m not out of sense; my monthly dose of hot men usually come from Wallpaper and Surface. Love the Ermenegildo Zegna suits.)
Ah, but anyway, that doesn’t discredit the fact that a lovely pair of legs play a reasonable part in the physical attraction factor. For men, it’s quite duh, huh; and I don’t complain. I love my legs. And I think they aren’t worshipped enough. Damnit.
I have no idea why, but I started feeling really frustrated at how I’m not meeting enough cute guys. Oh, very frivolous indeed, but I can’t help it. Of late.
Well, as of this afternoon anyway.
Now there’s this really gorgeous Scandinavian I’ve been trying to bully into working on something like the Beckham’s July 2003 cover for L'Uomo Vogue, but I believe that when he agrees, which would probably be sometime after his girl leaves the country, I’ll just leave it at there. Whatever. Even if he wants to shoot by himself, I’m fine with that, as long as I get to keep the photos. He’s gorgeous up to the point my panties get wet when I talk to him and the guys at the party willingly admit he should start his own fucking boy band already. Although I dare say his vocal capabilities leave very much to be desired, but that’s beside the point.
I wish there was a Mr. O character I could insert into my life.
Oh, but the truth is, all ex-flings and current paramours are mildly attractive and nothing spectacular for a reason. Well, a number of reasons.
1) Through random observation and arbitrary sampling, it would seem that the most gorgeous men I know are also the most faithful. and they are all attached.
2) I look nothing like Posh Spice, can never look anything like Posh Spice, and they all possibly want a woman that’s a looker like her. (Even though I have also observed that this is not all the time true. But I refer to the following point.)
3) They intimidate the hell out of me when I’m sober.And…
4) There’s really such a thing as being far too gorgeous.xoxox
Pleasant not to be Broke for Once.I stuck my debit card into the cash deposit today and discovered that I now have enough cash to visit the Boy, with a couple of hundred to spare. It’s not going to be anytime very soon though, but the thought that I can elevates me. I am currently resisting temptation to splurge a sizable percentage on one of those PDA/Palm/Camera phones. The rational that I’ve made do without one for so long and can make do without one for longer plays like a ruined tape recorder in my head.
I had dinner with my daddy last night, and he mentioned, almost as a passing remark (but I knew it wasn’t because of the mock bemused look he threw me over the roasted duck) that A Clockwork Orange was conveniently located on his bookshelf, and that I should take liberties with his collection of literature.
“You’re not as fucked as them, but the concept that runs the society in question is not altogether separate from Yours.”I’ll figure out what it means when I get down to reading it.
I really should be.
So strap on the strap on and slip on the suit, here’s what a woman thinks about what turns men off women!
It’s their stupid notion that pussy power is everything.
They think their pussies are god’s greatest gift to men, believing that the warm, sweet tunnel of procreative functioning and it’s relevant catacombs make them absolutely invincible and utterly supreme in a relationship.
Regardless of whether it’s a freshly discovered, candle-light romance or the sort where dinner table conversations revolve around the size of their adolescent daughter’s trainer bra, women will always think they hold the cords of romantic liaison behind the silken coverings of their panties. And they will never stop abusing it, whether they know it or not.
Blame it on society and its mad convention that causes them to believe that every time they have sex, they are giving a part of themselves through sacrificing one bit of their soul for the gratification of the male.
And thus, men are expected to exchange the world for the rather mundane activity of sexual- gratification. For pussy, we are expected to worship them, both their body and their intellect, of which the quality of either is inconsequential. For pussy, we must discard our views on everything, ranging from religion to politics to our ideal romance, to the fact that we really do not care what colour the covers are as long as they do not abrase our backs and stay on while doing the dirty. - Ah, no, I’m wrong; what sort of man cares about the latter. As long as the woman doesn’t insist on making the bed because it’s falling apart while at it, it’s of no consequence.-
Women, for the most part, are insane when it comes to how much their pussy is worth.
You see, one of the fundamental tenets of the problem with affording pussy lies in the fact that it’s worth a great deal. An immense deal. A deal bigger then Exxon being given the modus operandi for all the wells in Iraq. You get the idea, the worth of pussy is colossal.
And because of that, men cannot afford it all the time. Because it is a luxury good, and so luxurious it is indeed, we cannot want to want it all the time. It would drive us nuts to desire such lavishness incessantly, leaving insufficient mental capacity to finish up our so that your extravagances can be taken care of.
Another problem is that, because of it’s value, we have to be absolutely sure we pay exactly the right price for the right pussy.
Look, pussy is worth a lot, I’m absolutely convinced of the fact. But that your particular pussy is something I would want to afford in the first place is truly a gross misjudgment on part of the female mind.
The problem with some women is that they believe all men cannot resist their pussy. They have this outmoded, primordial instinct within them that creates the assumption that men always want to have sex, and will do anything to have it.
What is it with all these crazy sluts working their way into my sheets, thinking that, being male, I would naturally respond to the laws of nature in exactly the way they perceive my response should be?
I cannot stand women who advocate pussy power.
They cheapen the male species into nothing but a bunch of mechanical functions governed by their need to procreate.
I cannot stand pussy power.
Because, the truth is, in the face of it, I am most of the time subjected to it.