We interrupt this depression to bring you the following freak-on news update
08.12.2005

It appears that there is some strange and powerful force found in United Airlines flights that sucks out the energy of those who watch people board them and fly away. On Tuesday, my long-distance lover left the comfort of my arms and bed to return to his present-but-hopefully-soon-to-be-abandoned-for-the-wonders-of-Canada home. I kissed him, wished him well, watched him go, got on a shuttle to take me back home, and immediately crawled into bed, where I've essentially remained ever since.

Frankly, I make myself sick. This is such a stereotype. I'm really quite disappointed in myself. I've become the pining damsel wasting away in the absence of her knight in shining armour - and believe me, if you could see me, and then my lover, you'd realize just what a bad fit those roles are for either of us. If anything, I'm the female truck driver and he's the science geek that everyone used to pick on in school. Our coupledom is most certainly not a stereotype. It is, instead, very pleasantly bizarre. In fact, I'm guessing that if we sent a letter, we could make an appearance on the Maury Povich Show in one of his "opposites attract" episodes, along with the midget and her Sumo wrestler husband and the college football player with his 70-year-old mate, a grandmother of 15.

If you're expecting stories of the two of us running into each other's arms at the airport, walking on beaches in the sunset and making love in a canopy bed covered in rose petals, you may want to put the Harlequin Romance novel down and visit the couples at your local bingo hall for a strong dose of face-smacking reality.

In fact, my lover's stay played out more like a kinky S&M feature. His visit was spectacular - so much so we managed to bruise his calf, break his foot, cut off his finger, and destroy my living room furniture. There was blood involved, and pain, and urine, and a great deal of silliness. What more could I ask for?

First, I ended up peeing myself while I attempted to extricate both he and myself from the wreckage of my Ikea armchair that had collapsed underneath us just as he was leaning in to give me a long, luscious kiss. He literally fell into my arms. It was so romantic, once we removed the splinters.

Then his right leg turned a phenomenal shade of deep purple when he managed to fall flat on his face after catching his foot on the leg of my bed. The lump on his lower leg was so extreme it looked like a groundhog had burrowed its way in there and taken up residence. His foot subsequently started to swell and literally turn black and blue. He said it didn't hurt. It looked like it was about to fall off or explode.

(EMERGENCY UPDATE: It turns out his leg and foot have been getting worse, not better, and just now he's gone to the local ER in his area to wait all night for a doctor to finally check the thing out. He should have seen a doctor while in Canada. He didn't. Then he should have seen a doctor the moment he got off the plane. Again, he didn't. He forgot, he was busy, he was going to wait and see what happened, he was going to wait and see if he could get his foot to swell up to the size of a watermelon. What is it with guys anyway? They'd rather have a limb fall off than go to a medical professional who'll tell them they have problems. Well obviously they have problems. Why is it so painful for them to hear it from the mouth of a physician? I am baffled. I am also very worried. Silly, goofy, swollen-legged man.)

Finally, on his last night here, while we prepared a romantic dinner, he decided to impress me with his manly knife-juggling act. Unfortunately, my lover's eyesight leaves a little something to be desired, and the result of his attempt at masculine bravado ended in whimpering, bloody disaster. We spent the next 3 hours staunching the flood from his index finger by madly encasing it in endless swaths of gauze. He kept attempting to do things like wash his hands or clean the dishes (including the damned knives), getting the thing soaking wet, and subsequently dissolving any seal that had developed across his wound and causing it to again bleed profusely. Finally I managed to get him to keep still, relax, and stay away from water long enough for the thing to heal enough that the blood stopped flowing. Worst of all, I ended up overcooking the steak. Oh woe!

Speaking of blood, I apparently managed to regrow my hymen, as our first night of sex involved my apparent re-deflowering. On new and very pale sheets, of course. I mean, I know it's been a while, but is that actually physically possible? Me, I just laid there, sated and calm but slightly quizzical at the apparent biological impossibility. However, I'm pretty sure I detected a look of terrified panic in my lover's face. He was all mortified that he may have hurt me. I quickly dispelled that nonsense by pursuing more freak with him. Of course, I've predominantly gotten my freak on with the female of the species, and when I didn't, the first guy I had sex with had a really, really short penis, and the next (and last) guy I had sex with had a really, really narrow penis, so maybe they both managed to sort of deke around things, hymenically speaking. Or maybe I'm a freak of nature and actually have a fork in my vaginal road. Still, that's got to be some kind of bizarre miracle / record for the 21st century: a non-virgin apparently being deflowered at the age of 35.

Maybe I should call Guinness.

Or the Vatican.


make idle gossip (9 comments so far)

come hither - back off


Last 5 entries:
01.14.2007:Finally, a support group we can all get behind
01.09.2007:The City That Ever Reeks
01.08.2007:Waiter, there's a uterus in my soup
01.03.2007:Long Lost Mummy of Nefertiti Found in Smoog's Apartment
12.30.2006:New Year's resolutions we can actually keep



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