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Mother Nature is seriously fucked up.

Stick with me here.

Since I've been on the subject of lust lately (so to speak), I've been led to my newest, latest self-discovery:

It turns out that, contrary to my previous assertions, I am, in fact, a randy sexpot.

However, as stated in said previous assertions, this has not been a state of being with which I've generally been confronted. As such, the randy sexpot management lobe of my brain has become withered, stunted, and limp, rather like a spent penis. (This is the other thing I've discovered about myself: everything really is dirty, and no matter what metaphor I reach for, it always turns out to be swollen, engorged with blood, and eminently tasty.)

You probably all think it's funny. You've all already been there. You have all retained your memory of those 6 to 8 years of screaming adolescence you spent dreaming of humping cardboard boxes, cucumbers, lampposts, knotholes, and unsuspecting passersby who happened to hold still long enough. You've had practice. Your sexpot management lobe is flush and throbbing, standing by to ensure you can, indeed, still weld that pipe, type that letter, change that diaper, catch that bus, and sleep in that bed without an overwhelming need and desire to staple some velvet to your wall and frantically rub your naked body up and down against it.

Me, I lost my teens. I have no memory of them. Whatever hormone-addled learning experiences I may have had in my past have all travelled to the Great Repository of Forgotten Sex in the sky. I started over, brand spanking new and extra virginal, immediately after having brain surgery at 22 years old. As such, I've gone through a typical growing process, other than the fact that I'm not all that successful in fitting into those bouncy swings. I was far too busy trying to figure out you fucking lot to have any interest or inclination towards finding a romantic partner. I had better things to do with my time, like, say, panic randomly. Or offend the Queen in public. Or tell my mother to fuck off. Those were the kind of issues I dealt with. Hey, you wanna look at my language lobe? Huge. How about my reasoned self-examination gland? If it got any plumper, I'd need a second head. My left humoursphere is massive, my sarcasm gene highly active, and my "get ready in five minutes and yet still manage to look semi presentable because you slept through your alarm" region is about 10 times average size.

I'm 35 fucking years old. I'm respectable. I have business suits in my closet and wear Tena protective pads for mild bladder control problems (I really do pee myself laughing). I have a credit rating. People actually tell me I have a great deal of common sense. When have you ever heard someone say that to a teenager? People like me aren't meant to go through this kind of thing. It wears out our knees and gives us gas. It is so not evolutionarily friendly. This could kill me.

Therefore, Mother Nature is whacked.

Normally I'm a big fan of hers. Hey, how else could you possibly come up with something so entertainingly bizarre as a platypus? She has a great sense of style, marvelous landscaping talents, and is never, ever the bore at house parties. But come on, there should be some kind of cut-off point for crazed overwhelming lust. We have schedules. Oh sure, it's all well and good for a kid who can put her legs behind her head, run 20 miles in 5 minutes, and lives with no responsibility under her parents' roof, but try telling that to a high wire artist. Or a brain surgeon. Or worst of all, a nuclear warhead disarming technician. At the very least, she could consider reinstituting the mating season. At least then we could prepare ourselves. Yes, the entire planet would shut down for 3 weeks in May, but at least we could then move on and get things done. I haven't washed my laundry in weeks. I only just bought groceries again after having been reduced to gnawing on an empty pizza box to soak up the juices. What's more, I can't even tell you how many fucking pairs of underwear I go through. I miss my bus, forget to call, trigger the smoke alarm, accidentally bowl over small children, walk to the store in my pyjamas, forget to floss, forget to flush, and generally lose track of anything I handle that isn't large enough to cause me a large hernia. Actually, scratch that. I suspect that right now I could even misplace a piano.

I want my brain back.

Or at least the ability to put it on layaway.

make idle gossip (6 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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