sometimes i am so weird, i get scared.

i just realized i am watching a Kieslowski art house french film and eating mediterranean croutons like it's the done thing on a sunday evening.

jesus.

belated best wishes

i must apologize for missing the birthday salutations. or as we once thought was a good idea, shout-outs.

i spent all of yesterday in the torturous hang-over-at-work mode counting pens. yes, it was stationary inventory day and sara was on a suicidal rampage.

my personal woes aside, i hope bridget had an amazing birthday. full of west coast fun (which in my mind only consists of the snowmountains of cocaine and orgies glorified by johnny depp films).ps - the hollywood gossip is going over like mad. you are a goldmine my darling.

24 is only just around the bend here as well, and i am petrified to be in my mid-20s but sincerely looking forward to another year of mayhem. may yours be spectacular.

dear lauren (and any other naysayers of my bachelordom),

it is a fact universally acknowledged that a young woman in possession of anything resembling sanity must be in want of a sex-partner. i do not attempt to deny this will someday, and for some unforseeable duration, probably take the form of marriage or at the very least, shacking-up.

that said, it will take a lot more than a regualr dosage of austen to woo me into commitment. such romances may have blinded me into believing artsy theatre dweebs were attractive for a time (and no, i didn't have the SAME crush from 8th grade on - i just cant deny anders, caleb, bryce, pat and nathan were pretty much exactly the same boy), but if they haven't converted me yet, it's never going to happen.

if anything, film adaptations of the classics have only given me a fetish for riding boots.

things i want

- to be missed (day two and i still think i want a hypothetical relationship. this might be a record.)
- ben and jerry's brownie-fudge-whatsit
- a candle lit bubble bath
- a massage
- a favourite novel
- a silk robe
- stillettos


if i become any more bridget jones i am going to puke.

confessions of an intimate and ridiculous nature

i have two confessions.

1 - i believe i may yet be able to count myself normal. i (you may say finally) desire intimacy.

an everyday assurance (for as fleetingly as i can probably maintain it) of making someone pancakes and waking up in the quietude of security. of ups and downs, but the same ride til the end.

i crave togetherness.



2 - perhaps the following is a factor in that confession, though i find it less significant than that implies.

today i slept with one of my friends.

shocker i know. he was drunk, i was tired, and after we went to the movies and had pizza.

he was, of course, the one everybody thought i already had shagged and secretly thinks i will probably end up with - like if this was a rob reiner film. but life just isnt like that, and after sex we don't suddenly realize we are entirely different people.

we are both a-emotional and libidinous, what more did we need than pizza? i said i took advantage of him, and he apologized for getting out of hand. we laughed. a lot. we hi-fived when we parted ways in the end, to mark the occasion.

and quite honestly i am entirely apathethic about the act itself. but it also got me thinking, in that dozing post-coital way, that i really do love the afterglow cuddle part. the part i am always so hasty to be out the door before. the part that i fear will swallow me.

and perhaps serendipitously, having that calm intimacy with someone who already knew me, kind of bridged the gap for me. answered the unasked. my point i guess is that simple act of closeness between people who know each other was really nice. better than i thought (and to be honest, better than the sex).

of course not nice enough i'm going to ever believe in platonic napping with said partner again, but nice enough i'd be willing to really truly give it a go with someone i fancy. that just maybe i am not the fridgid bitch i play on tv.

and sadly, that is a major step for me.



so there you go. you have to fuck someone to find out you don't want them. in fact, you may find out you kind of want to stop fucking altogether and consider using phrases like "making love" and "laughing together" (an ancient african euphemism i rather enjoy) from one accidental tryst with a platonic partner.

lesson of the day: to know thyself, fuck thy friends.

only in my world can this be a legitimate train of thought. le sigh.

an excerpt from my last email to jennie:

"i have to go to bed now. i am an old woman. i am a spinster. this is the rest of my life, stretched out before me. an endless series of movie nights in and no man to pet my head during the hot desert cave sex in weird foreign films. this blows. at this point i'd even consider the emotionally unavailable and yet smitten chow yun fat to die in my arms. at least then i'd get to second base."

bite me

it's official. i've had this thing too long. when i can't remember my entries the novelty has officially worn off.

but as i am rather enjoying sputtering on about nothing, i suppose i can continue a while longer. well definately until i get so bored i want to slit my eyeballs, or die of herpes (as my brother constantly reminds me is imminent in a dirty country like this).

anyway, my point was (i do sometimes indulge the urge to make one), i wish i was blessed with enough brevity, or at least a decent enough search engine i could see if i had already written something. because i think i told someone this once, maybe here, i don't remember.

right.

so it's my day off, and after hours of gruelling paperwork, a phd application, and trying to exchange a victorias secret bra online since they don't exist on this godforsaken island, i have fallen into the deep hole of internet maintence* from which i will emerge bleary eyed, confused, stiff and petulant in a few hours.

*generally taken to mean checking up on favourite websites, sorting old bookmarks, and various other weird timewasting routines that crop up every few months when left to my own devices at the keyboard before i even realize i am doing them.

and anyway, i came across this
the best first chapter of a novel ever. a shit book actually, but an amazing opening. and funny only because it's true.

barbie's S&M torture island consisted of hanging scantily dressed "handheld sexpots" (especially the hawaiian one) by their hair out my dresser drawers and on my ceiling fan and biting off or maulling those rubbery little toes completely designed to fit the small child tongue like a pacifier, until she assented to something terrible with the ugly Ken.

i don't know why i am confessing this.

mostly because i hate reality bites. mutliation and sex games are my only refuge from bullshit 90s ennui. go figure.

useless information about my day thus far

so i totally probably have the best minimum wage job ever.

i had to call carmen sandiego (the company, not the sexy (in a 90s cartoon way) monument-criminal in red trench sadly. thank god the rockapella tune has been far far from my thoughts ...til now. oh shit.) to see about shipping abroad for a desperate middle school teacher landed with american geography last minute this term.

lord help her. we all hated it even if we were from there. that would have been like Iwasko trying to sell the provinces of India as interesting. mutiny is inevitable.

but mostly i had a clean out day where i gave kids (and by kids i mean anyone under 80, especially anyone cute, who i deemed worthy of narnia swag) stickers, posters, bags and other various publicity shit i really don't need clogging up my life. the birthday 5 year old who almost cried at the spot balloon wins.

so yeah.

now i am de"smart"ed (as phil so eloquently called my new sexy-librarian look. he is retarded.) and debating kareoke tonight. shall i slip back down that path to grungy college tease? does it matter than hot sebastian is going?

ps, is it relevant i haven't had a real meal for 3 days since i refuse to shop for groceries?
pps, which is more important - the malnutrition or the fact i may now be able to pull off the skin-tight marilyn monroe pencil skirt at work?

choices choices.

reasons to love the new year:

1. even numbered years are always better
2. best buy has short lines
3. banana republic clearance sale
4. quote of the day:

Girl #1: We only fucked for like 2 minutes.
Girl #2: Why?
Girl #1: He has ADD.
Girl #2: Is that, like, when the person has more than one personality?
Girl #1: No, I wish. Role playing would be a lot easier.

--Hunter College North-West bridge

overheardinnewyork is amazing.

5. oh, and asofterworld is the best it's been in weeks.

we are off to a good start when mythbusters and dune are in my near future.

new year, same v

it's an hour until new year.

all day i have been considering what this means and for the first time asking myself if i care.

and i have come to the conclusion, no i really really don't.

the last week i spent with the family and rejuvinating my soul (as only slurpees, fallow farmland, and tivo can) and last night was a college reunion of mass proportions (tequila, pool, and over priced bottles of miller light - and there's nothing like cheetos at the travelodge to round out an evening).

i don't need anymore nostalgia or reminding me what is good and what matters. if you're doing it right, that's everyday, not an end of year celebration.

so i've been watching a marathon dvd session on shelly duvall's faerie tale theatre, a formative piece of my childhood, and glad to not be out in the quiet desperation and forced revelry this day usually entails.

probably other people really enjoy it. i hope so. i can't imagine bothering every year unless it actually was a grand night out. but when 2 of the last three years ended in massive tears and a hangover, i'd rather just take my dog for a walk, thanks just the same.

and no, this isn't sour grapes. i figure i'm lucky things are so good i can appreciate it all without a holiday excuse. i don't need new year to celebrate.

so tonight being ice cream and xbox golf with my dad is okay by me. better than okay. i can't think of a better way to ring in the new year.

...well, unless of course i was getting hot dirty sex, but i've got the rest of the year for that. today can be for the simpler pleasures.

so happy new year. enjoy it anyway you see fit.

i am running on empty.

i have done 0 hours of family reconn, small talk and general "oh yes i care about you and your boring life" for about two years (one lunch with my grandma on the last visit home barely counts since i did all the talking) for years and i didnt miss it.

and i am out.

i just want to sleep for days and be left alone.

actually, i want to lay on the couch and not have the phone ring or people come over or anyone expect me to do or be or say or go anything or anywhere.

i wish i was my brother.

i should be better than this. i hope it is just pms and i can blame my body and stop thinking i am a horrible person.

social resurrection

tis the season to be outrageous.

so in case jennie, my social publicist, has not told everyone i know, yes i am back in the game.


as i was endearingly dressed as lucy from narnia saturday morning (full on pleated skirt, plaited hair, mary janes, mink coat, dagger and vial of holy water - good lord i can make a costume) for the holiday shoppers, a certain scot appeared in my shop wondering if i was free for lunch, as we had tentatively arranged.

de-lucy-ed and sans mink, i am whisked away to a cafe (well within sight of my colleagues, some of whom i know to have a crush on him). and it was surprisingly good. my faith in the dating system (i guess it counts since he paid and i glowed after) is renewed.

of course the fact we can talk about the merits of the mtv mentality, the meaning of fandom and the death of book alongside the glory of peter parker, gay catholicism and theoretical sex with a goat in the span of an hour doesn't so much validate the idea a date can be sane than it reaffirms my utter dorkdom (but geek chicks are hot, or so i heard).

but fuck it.

i had a nice time, he emailed first, and i have caved and bought the magazine he is in (may it never be said i don't fall into petty girl-dom despite my best efforts).

hello from before

i know.

i haven't written in a while. chill the fuck out.

but with my mom living on the sofa in my bedroom there was little room to embelish in the vixen's exploits (even with a mad ceilidh with a swede on graduation day) in the past month.

to be fair though, she bought me a flatscreen tv and a dvd player in recompense, besides, i needed the time away to prove my pious devotion to a trying a normal life.

today though, i am back in the game.

remember that hot young author? this one.

yeah well, he wrote me. he is on the list of scotland's top 100, along with the new Dr. Who and the guy who wrote Alan Partridge (probably brit references well and decently out of the scope of anyone not tied to this island).

and after some slight flirtation (don't blame me, he asked why his description included the alien term "jailbait" - and no, this one isn't a minor, i checked - so sue me for explaining piquishly?) we have tentative plans tomorrow.

i expect nothing, but think i might shave my legs just in case.

the various unbelievable things: the unrated edition

for the pg version see my link on the right.

for the additions see below:

1- that fucker stole my wallet. i hate london. punk ass cunts stealing my shit from right underneath me! no amount of elgin marbles and king tut can fix that fact it is a dirty city of fuck-face conmen and wenches.
2 - of course it could have been worse. my one of a kind lulu guiness bag was recovered. and give me a break for name dropping - mom showed up to my office in a full length mink and pearls for fucks sake. my parents live on another planet. still, i really miss my phone. and my movie card. and my drivers licence. and my free drinks card for the pub. and the 200 pounds mom owed me. so in total: london sucks major ass no matter how fucking brilliant an empire it used to control.
3 - i know i am swearing a lot. i may have survived my mother finding my condoms, being open about dad's new hormone stuff (trust me, really you dont want to know), but somehow i still find it difficult to swear in front of the bitch.
4 - mom is lovely but more than a fornight in the same bedroom is driving me up the wall. its not the mess or the noise, but the libido (if you are surpirsed you do not deserve to read further). i wondered what the deal was until under the pretense of a "nap" yesterday i went back to the hotel and relieved myself of various forms of stress in the tried and true method. nothing is better than a couple of orgasms, a pint, and a long walk in the countryside.

step 4b -

i don't have the heart to write step 5 yet. mostly because i am obviously not fully recovered, but also because i don't have a good title.

anyway, that doesn't mean i didn't come up with a killer coping mechanism today.

in college i invented a game, the o game. to pass time in ann arbor after looking at the same tired student faces everyday, i decided to guess exactly what face this person would have on at climax.

there were your general versions of ectasy and its aftermath, but there were also fun favourites like the jocks who screamed "mommy", convulsion carols, and the cryers ("oh that was so beautiful todd..."). I highly recommed this game in any overpopulated location.

but, as the third anniversary of the game has rolled around, i have realized it's possible alternative use.

should you ever desire to fuck a stranger in a back alley, consider his mug added to the grotesque menagerie already emblazened on your brain from experience rather than creative thinking. it's not a collection anyone would like to see multiply, and will certainly stop you from going at it like rabbits by sheer revulsion.

nymphette the 5 step programme - step 4 : magic fingers

remind yourself you don't need a man, or woman, or vibrating latex mammalian-shaped substitute by locking yourself in with some killer tunes, a cliche candle or two, and fingers so dexterous carpaltunnel is imminent at this rate. turns out i didn't play the violin for nothing.

ps - funniest shit ever. i love my brother: oedipus the douchebag

nymphette, the 5 step programme - step 3: misplaced idolotry

may your sentiments deny that which your selfcontrol can't. this may be seen as backtracking, but knowing your limits and setting your standards higher than is possible to attain curbs otherwise disasterous inclinations.

a girly night of drinks and debating the finer points of harry potter's theology (snape must be good for the sake of christianity) and jonathan strange and mr. norell (who we still think the servant may have done it all along) - yes this counts as girl talk amongst those of uis with simple lives and shared past partners which one should never mention in good company - segued into an evening with neil gaiman.

a long time hero, a minor fantasy in the dark mysterious artsy way most of us have fallen for, and much too unattainable in his cult. but as he read in his posh southern english accent in an overly dramatic leather jacket and specifically-mussy hair i was equally enthralled and repulsed at the deliberation behind such an image.

any possible lustful thoughts still lingering in my general person were dashed like waves on Dover when the Q&A turned to a level of gothgeekdom i had heretofore only read about. when Mr. Earplugs- and-Skull-branded-Leather countered Ms. velvet-cape-and-untrimmed-locks (which were less flowing than she imagined) with a "but Sandman #50 was well before the first Gulf War much less the bombing of Baghdad..." I lost all faith in humanity much less any glimmer of hope for sex.

perhaps step three should be "surround thyself with repulsive freaks to ban any interest in intimacy from thy thoughts".

nymphette the 5 step programme, step 2: harmless encounters

so the job is good. hard and weird and so busy, but really good (i think). i got my first free book today, which is a damn fine start.

also, i walked home in the companionable but not entirely devoid-of-flirting company of inexplicably good guy from work ("good guy" in the michael bluth sense. oh jason bateman. insert shudder of pleasure.), who although not a looker or available, is a good bit of banter and general distraction.

it is nice to have work friends.

nymphette, the 5 step programme - step 1: deny temptation

so i have significantly chilled out since writing the below (i love the phrase "writing the above" though it so rarely makes sense in a world where no one writes on scrolls anymore, so i've darwined it into blogger compatible prose).

this is in no small part to my awarding myself brownie points for not sleeping with stranger-friend of phil's. there is nothing more tempting that a cute no-strings attached backpacker showing up at your party. but i was still feeling a little dirty and am atoning through nominal piety.

it didn't help i was holding a bottle of holy water at the time (long fabulous story) and jack mentioned i might melt or burst forth into flames of damnation at any minute from coming in contact with something blessed. turns out he was wrong (we tested by spraying me with it), but still.

plus sarah the gossip queen was of course grilling me for details about lee (of course he told people) and her friend phil who apparantly fancies me something dreadful after her last party

audience aside: i know it sounds like this is griping as a facade for showing off a la "oh it is so tiring to be adored" Helen of Troy (you really must read Atwood's Penelopiad) but it isn't. sadly, i am still in the pubescent mindset "why would anyone be interested? what is wrong with them?" mentality and have no way of processing such things other than writing them down hoping there is something i've missed. i'd say the "data does not compute" but even i am not that dorky all the time.

...so i was less than inclined to continue with my recent indescretions until at least we all couldn't vividly recall my last few.

besides, he was canadian. someday i'll tell you about my canuck curse.

anyway, yeah. so my party was good. i was good which is even better, and i start my job tomorrow. holy fuck.

this got long. and explict. this is me. and i am sorry.

so now when i get online, i have to decide where my ramblings will be posted - general censorship and audience restrictions make it feel like i have multiple personalities sometimes.

anyway, this wins because the name is most fitting.

i've gone and done it again.

as i have been telling chris (we have of late been having long involved emails about the meaning of love and intimacy generally concerning the numbers game and our sex lives or lack there of), i am still (perhaps desperately) clinging to the idea of forever and meaningful and an all round prince charming who gives great head.

but this desire and deep seated belief in the possibility of special and sacred does not incline me to spend the rest of my life waiting for it sexually frustrated and lonely.

here in lies the dilema.

so, in my misguided and unplanned coping scheme, i generally do not foray into socio-physical encounters as i generally feel i can hold out for better and figure something good is on the way. but every once in a while i snap and then for a brief period would shag anything that moves since the rest of my 'self' and moral high ground are overpowered by blood lust and insatiable hormones. it's kind of like that volcano of emotions of puberty. back then i would scream and cry and fall asleep and now i get myself some play, then drop them like a hot potato. neither is recommended if you want to look sane.

this scenario, while not flattering or all together healthy for my reputation or emotional CV, keeps me balanced. cathardic almost.

but so anyway, my point was, unexpectedly, i've gone and done it again.

last night met up with jack and some of his work friends - real guys, who drink beer and have girlfriends and all that. and little irish lee was totally hitting on sonja all night. seriously, they were talking about victiorian literature and i had to interupt a dickensian-austenite debate to buy the next round. well, when she went home i made a point to chat to him, field the territory, feel it out and invite him to my party in one of my matchmaking attempts (the likes of which i have not attempted since probably back when we went to lock-ins and those after school 6th grade non-commital "dance" things).

and i totally pulled a kylie.

drunk little lee forgot all about sonja and tried to feel me up under the table. apparantly i didnt know how amazing my tits look in the top i was wearing and he pretty much lost all sense of decency after another round.

and me being me, i wasn't going to turn down a little play so i let him walk me home (if by walk you mean make out on a park bench and get fingered in an alley).

but me also being me, i made it very clear i wanted nothing from him, i was not going to sleep with him, in all likelihood i would pretend this never happened and was perfectly happy to go our seperate ways and he was allowed to pursue sonja in a gentleman-like fashion and i wouldnt feel put upon or used. in fact i pretty much wasnt interested, but if he was giving handjobs for free i wasnt going to say no.

as i write this i cant help but feel a little dirty - the major downside of this sexual coping technique.

what was i thinking? have i no shame? or worse, no standards? i wasnt even interested and he was totally into sonja. i have no problem apparantly making short work of my reputation and personal boundaries, but when other people are involved it feels like betrayal.

somewhere i blinked and crossed a line and who the fuck have i become?

i still don't hold much stock in the fact i hooked up with a stranger. i never have. maybe a bit embarassed at the public space portion, but like i've never been that before. but i guess i never really considered the implications of all this shit for other people.

he text me three times today. three. is this going to be a thing, because i really didn't want anything. i still dont. i really thought we could just be mates. i am such a man.

and now what kind of weirdness have i made for sonja? if she likes him do i tell her? is it my job? my business? my fault? what was i thinking? i am emotionally retarded to be having 90210 dilemas at my age. why couldnt i have fucked my best friends boyfriend in high school or college like a normal whore and got all this shit out of the way? there should be deadlines for these kinds of mistakes.

or jack for that matter. they are work friends. like he wants his watercooler conversation this morning to be about my lack of decency. like i need him to hear that shit about me from virtual strangers. i don't even know the kid for christ sake, why did it have to be someone who'll share trophy stories at the pub with my best friend? why did it not occur to me this is socially awkward before i copped a feel?

sometimes i really need to think with something other than my box. and sadly, i have no idea how. it's like call of the wild or some shit. i have no self control. its shameless. animalistic. raw. and rude.

is there a drug to make me sane? do i want to give up my fleeting but satisfying encounters to be normal? how many times must i brush with disaster before i realize sometimes people are more important than my libido?

this is what catholic school and an extended and late puberty does to you. enforced asexuality means a decade of overcompensation at least.

yours,
hoplessly whorish