Soapbox Diner: Visceral

Soapbox Diner

Visceral

05.30.07

I wish I were an Oscar Meyeer weiner, that is what I'd truly like to be, for if I were an Oscar Meyer weiner, everyone would be in love with me!!!

Do you ever have random thoughts, sayings, songs stick in the craw of your brain from which you cannot extricate yourself? There are definitely worse things in the world to have happen. Me, I love these little frozen tidbits of pop culture. The Oscar Meyer weiner song(cha-ching on the sitemeter hits off that)is definitely a favorite in that regard.

Hmm, so what's new, pussycat? Not much here. Lots of the same. Broke, worried about the mortgage, worried about the kid, worried about the situation with Mr. T. Worried about everything. Working on the yard and keeping busy. Working.

Brazen Hussy has been living up to her name lately. She keeps telling me about her exploits with various men. Men who come visit at lunch that she takes down to the woods around the river to fuck. Men she meets randomly through friends of friends who she takes home to fuck. Men and fucking. Fucking and men. Makes my head explode because honestly? I could care less and it's all kind of disgusting to me to hear about where she has poison ivy. Plus, you see, lately I've been feeling the really, really urgent need to fuck. I want to feel ALIVE again, which has been desperately missing here lately. I suppose that's really healthy, that I'm feeling the longing to be out there again, but christ almighty, is it uncomfortable!

So my girlfriend called me Saturday to tell me that Mr. T called her Friday night. Apparently he tried to tug on her sympathy strings about his plight. Then he asked about me and what and how I've been doing. He tried to win her over by telling her my situation was my own creation totally beyond his contribution or control. Fucking fine, dude. Whatever. Yes, this is my house and I wanted it. But damn it all, you had a part in this, too. So I had to apologize to her for his calling, cuz that's what friends do.

I'm tired of all this fucking with my brain, though. I don't want to hear it anymore, and yet I don't want to be ignorant or oblivious to even the most minor detail. What's the deal with that?

I have been doing a lot of fighting with myself over not calling him, so I guess we're both feeling that three-month itch. I guess that's a good thing - it makes me feel a little less alone, knowing he's got me on his brain, too.

A friend at work showed me some pix of herself with John Legend. God, he's hot. We're both in lust, I think. I asked her if she wanted to put him in her pocket and take him home to stay. She said she just wanted to kiss him, their faces were so close as to nearly touch. And in my mind I formed a picture of her hugging him, and drawing in a deep nasal breath to collect all the scent of his wonderfulness. And it made me think of Mr. T. You see, that is what he used to do to me, once upon a time. Then, it was uncomfortable and disturbing - having a person sniff you so hard it felt like your hair would go up their nostrils. Now, however, it looks a little bit more like one person trying to connect with another to manifest a visceral, physical memory of them to take with you.

But it's still kinda pathetic and gross.

Anyways, enough of that. I have serious beer drinking to do before I crawl in bed for an early night. Ta-ta, darlings. Think of me the next time you draw in a deep nasal breath, won't you?

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sbd v. 11 @ 2002-2007