That "Just Fucked" Feeling.

Had some much needed Brooklyn Friendships with the beloved Porter Mason last eve. We sat in a window seat and drank a beer and I told him the mildly amusing story of being feebly shit-talked in a manner most ill-informed on someone else’s blog. I always have somewhat enjoyed playing the role of self-righteous martyr, and so in this case, I took the spiritual high road by simply shrugging to Porter and saying, “Have fun with all that, tough guy.” Whereas my first instinct in the past would be to beat the fucking innards out of someone who so much as looked sideways at me, lately I’ve been thinking it’s not worth bloody knuckles. Especially when the person who seems to be begging for a pounding doesn’t really know what they’re even talking about- and that’s not their fault, so are they really being a jerk? In the most pure sense, no. It makes it easier for me to muster up amusement about the whole episode, because I’m sure I’d take the same approach given the circumstances. Bet.

MOMENT OF CLARITY: Did I just waste more of my precious time on Earth sniping someone on my narcissisictic blog who tried to snipe me & by association my friends on their subpar blog? Yes. Yes I did. How very mournful. What next in this pantheon of interweb intrigue for me: de-MySpacing someone? It’s the next logical step I guess.

Here's how it go: “I’ll fix you! I’ll click on a button and take away the manna of my electronic companionship! You heard me. No more bulletiens about my shitty shows or quizzes about how to find my Terrorist Dictator name. Now how are you going to leave the house in the morning? Enjoy the sleepless nights you’ll spend wondering what you did to lose the all-important bond forged in cyberspace betwixt us. Oooooohh! BURN! Do you feel that?! Huh?! HUH!?! That’s the feeling of totally getting de-MySpaced and it’s colder than subfreezing ice vats in hell but if hell had snow blizzards instead of like, devils and flames and lava and shit. Yeah! Take it! Take it you goddamned filthy whore!”

I am real, real mature. What a prize for all the guys, is Barber. Puke.

The lovely Annie sent me an email full of silly sex facts. One stood out to this lady- it said, in essence, that sex begets sex. As in, if you’re humping someone, your pheromones will emit an allure that means even more people will want to climb up on you. You’ll be showered with more attention from potential mates if you’re mating. I had to laugh at that, because based on this weekend, I am in agreement. I like science when it validates my sexuality. This gives my constant pursuit of naughtiness a rather scholarly air, and I find that quite appealing. It conjures up images of pipes, black lace hot pants, courdoroy blazers with leather patches at the elbows and, perchance, kiwi-flavoured lube. You know. The usual.

Falling asleep sitting up at desk. I cannot wait for lunch when I will sneak off to nap in an abandoned office. Not only am I the world’s worst employee, I am, it would seem, some sort of a hobo. A hobo with a very expensive brow & bikini wax. I keep that shit tight, holmes.