ok, ok, where the fuck have I been eh ?
Let myself get distracted again - wanted to write some meaningful stuff and then would spend too much time distracted on what to write instead of just writing. A lot of weird moments over the last few days - not necessarily bad moments - some oddly pleasant, but surreal.
Lots of bad dreams lately - not sleeping well - though generally in a much better state mentally then I was most of June, July and August.
I need summer to end, the heat is oppressive - leaving me holed up inside. I want to enjoy my backyard - bought a new gas grill - nice - grilled chicken every night.
Went to Manny Lehman/Mike Durreto at Freedom/Arena on Saturday night. Bumped up a little before I went - but laid off the drugs while I was there - just some beer and Ripped Fuel. Lucky showed up seperately an hour after I got there. We turned alot of heads as we crossed the room holding hands - so many people were truly supportive - coming up to us individually or together to tell us how happy the were to see us together. Some a little confused. And some a little saddened or miffed - those who had been flittered with over the last few months.
Funny how a few hours earlier at the gym - pushing through and amazing set - my heart racing - blood demanding it's attention as it jetison through - pumping and pounding - the old crush came up and began chatting me up - the third time this week - this time he asked for my phone number. Too funny - god how bad I've wanted a bedroom rematch with this boy since giving him up 3 years ago to be with Lucky. I chuckled light heartedly and made some lame excuse for why it wasn't really great timing to be giving out my phone number - he leaves without saying goodbye.
Not so funny how hours later from that moment Lucky and I start going down the road of conversations we always failed to have well. This one about "the boy" - a meaningless encounter the night before we broke up - a reckless flirtation on my part - that never had anything to do with the break-up but somehow has become this fixation of Lucky's - something he won't let go of. He's drunk - he fights shitty when he's drunk. He loses control. Freaks out. I get out of the car, walk away and lock the door. He's hurting, he leaves, he comes back - he gets destructive - throwing plants on my patio, breaking a landscaping light - oh what the neighbors must think.
In three years he's never done this.
I dreamt of Mike (the one who died last month), Lucky and I are arguing - he comes from out of nowhere - so pale, so unreal. He gently seperates us - pushing between us the palm of his hands at our stomachs. He seems to glow - but he says nothing. He places his hands on the lower part of our backs and pulls us in - as if to hug him between us - and then he's gone and we're hugging each other. I cry when I wake. I feel erriely like it wasn't a dream - almost as if it was something stronger.
I close all the blinds and watch movies in the dark. "Dark City", "Mimic" - I even consider placing a sheet over the window as the sun starts creeping around it's perimeter - for some reason I want to pretend it's not morning...
6 hours later - it's 1pm. I should be watching football, doing laundry. I shower - let the sunshine back in. I call Lucky and tell him it's forgotten, he's forgiven. We need to let go off the old hurts and concentrate on what everyone else see's. We need to stop the disrespect, rehashing the same fight.
Later I make him dinner, drink some wine - we watch the Emmy's, our dog at our feet...content to be the object of both our affections.
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
Ok Fast Pants...here are your answers:
- I can assure you - I would "never" be a McDonald's character
- Coming to 6 hours after going down on ‘G’ at a bar in Chicago, strangers carried me out unconcious - took me home - stuck me in a shower and then explained to me when I finally came to (and they had been up all night watching over me) that I had stopped breathing several times.
- Prefer a rhythmic combination of both – starting slow and steady and ending fast and furious.
- Chicago
- Movie Critic or Club Scene Reporter for Rolling Stone or a Fluffer before the invention of Viagra.
- Suck – then Lick down the shaft – back up to the head – down the shaft, the balls, under the balls. Repeat as necessary.
- Atari – 10th Birthday. The made it a treasure hunt to find it and the wrapped it in a crappy box. It was more the lead-up and the surprise – hey sounds like sex!
- Oral – 12 yrs old, Anal – 23 yrs old.
- Memorize (and constantly forget)
- Issey Miyake ‘Pour Homme’
Tuesday, September 17, 2002
Monday, September 16, 2002
Top Ten Reasons It's OK To Be From A Dysfunctional Family
- With a plethora of divorces and seperations in your family tree your sure to get more presents at X-mas.
- You have way more of a chance of appearing on Sally, Jenny or Judge Judy than those silly, vanilla nuclear families.
- It's not only not controversial to be in therapy - you get the "family discount"
- Two words: Prescription Drugs
- More likely to "run into someone you know" at an AA, NA, or AAA (kidding) meeting.
- You never actually "had" to go on family vacations.
- You'll never write a blog about your coffee cup.
- Four words: Movie Of The Week
- Which is more intriguing cocktail chatter : "I hit my brother in the face with a golf club when I was 8" or "A story about earning a merit badge in boy scouts"
- Even Dr. Phil steers clear of you.
Sunday, September 15, 2002
...tell me - what does it take to trust ?
The first time out.
or
when you've already been around the bend.
Why is it I find it so hard - to believe, to incline myself to the way of thinking that says "No - you don't want to fuck me over - you don't wish to hurt me first"
Obviously and tirelessly I am reflective of late. I'm sorry - it must seem droll to listen to me excavating my past, memories supressed and some slung over my shoulder like a huge bag of cement mix. But - then again this blog is for me.
So today we dig.
When did I stop trusting others - or did I ever ?
A story comes to mind.
A 10 year old boy lays awake in his room. It's late. His eyes should be closed and his dreams fanciful - an X-Men adventure in which he is the star, a Hardy Boys mystery that he would solve or a Richie Rich cartoon where wealth is without question - instead he listens to his breath his little chest heaves slowly - up then down - then up again. It's a hot night for Arizona and his first year living in the state. The modest, ranch home, a generic shoebox in suburbia, is anything but quiet.
They are screaming again - things break, but his brother and sister lay quiet in their beds as well - are there eyes open - are they scared too, he thinks? Beyond the four walls and the closed bedroom door - plastered with his crayon drawings of super heros and imaginary friends - their is shoving, a scuffle.
It's bad this time.
Normally the father doesn't cry.
She's leaving again.
Too much booze all day long - the boy came home to find her drunk again - she yelled at him, confused and eractic, accused him of being a liar, a thief - a horrible little boy. She would shake him - slap him for being bad - for not telling the truth. When his father would get home - he would make the son apologize - for upsetting his Mother - for making her cry. She didn't mean the things she said - he couldn't take those things seriously. He hated coming home first - to find her crying, to find her sleeping, to find her yelling. How many steps was it from the school yard to his front door and how slowly could he make them last?
When she got like this - this other person she was - so unlike the beautiful and kind woman he cherished and who called him tiger and played with his hair while they watched 'Happy Days' - she always said she was leaving. Some nights she would pull he and his brother and sister into the kitchen. There they would sit on a school night - the clock hitting 2am - little solemn statues sitting erect in the glaring flourescent light. Holding herself up by the orange kitchen counters - she would say "I'm a horrible Mother - a failure - and you children hate me - your father doesn't love me anymore" - she would point to her haphazardly packed bags:
"I'm leaving".
She had done this before, but every time - everytime - it hurt. They would sit tears streaming over their reddened cheeks - their father would scold them not to cry - not to encourage her nonsense. She would tell them she tried to love them, tried to be a good mother, but she couldn't do it.
But this night the bedroom door wasn't flung open.
This night his father was sick of stopping her.
And the boy prayed to a god he didn't believe in - to give him her pain, to give him every ounce of her hurt, every wrong doing, every horrible thing - to fill every inch of his slight 70lb frame - with blackness. He clenched his fists and he gritted his teeth - he wouldn't cry - he wouldn't think - he wouldn't dream - he wouldn't hope - he needed room for her pain - he HAD to take it all - if he did this - this one thing - she wouldn't leave him.
He woke the next morning.
A fever was raging through his body, he coughed and coughed and coughed, his throat swelled and he found it hard to swallow.
Chills traveled his small spine and tripped over his pajama bottoms to reach his toes.
He had valley fever and spent most of the summer in bed.
...and she stayed.
The first time out.
or
when you've already been around the bend.
Why is it I find it so hard - to believe, to incline myself to the way of thinking that says "No - you don't want to fuck me over - you don't wish to hurt me first"
Obviously and tirelessly I am reflective of late. I'm sorry - it must seem droll to listen to me excavating my past, memories supressed and some slung over my shoulder like a huge bag of cement mix. But - then again this blog is for me.
So today we dig.
When did I stop trusting others - or did I ever ?
A story comes to mind.
A 10 year old boy lays awake in his room. It's late. His eyes should be closed and his dreams fanciful - an X-Men adventure in which he is the star, a Hardy Boys mystery that he would solve or a Richie Rich cartoon where wealth is without question - instead he listens to his breath his little chest heaves slowly - up then down - then up again. It's a hot night for Arizona and his first year living in the state. The modest, ranch home, a generic shoebox in suburbia, is anything but quiet.
They are screaming again - things break, but his brother and sister lay quiet in their beds as well - are there eyes open - are they scared too, he thinks? Beyond the four walls and the closed bedroom door - plastered with his crayon drawings of super heros and imaginary friends - their is shoving, a scuffle.
It's bad this time.
Normally the father doesn't cry.
She's leaving again.
Too much booze all day long - the boy came home to find her drunk again - she yelled at him, confused and eractic, accused him of being a liar, a thief - a horrible little boy. She would shake him - slap him for being bad - for not telling the truth. When his father would get home - he would make the son apologize - for upsetting his Mother - for making her cry. She didn't mean the things she said - he couldn't take those things seriously. He hated coming home first - to find her crying, to find her sleeping, to find her yelling. How many steps was it from the school yard to his front door and how slowly could he make them last?
When she got like this - this other person she was - so unlike the beautiful and kind woman he cherished and who called him tiger and played with his hair while they watched 'Happy Days' - she always said she was leaving. Some nights she would pull he and his brother and sister into the kitchen. There they would sit on a school night - the clock hitting 2am - little solemn statues sitting erect in the glaring flourescent light. Holding herself up by the orange kitchen counters - she would say "I'm a horrible Mother - a failure - and you children hate me - your father doesn't love me anymore" - she would point to her haphazardly packed bags:
"I'm leaving".
She had done this before, but every time - everytime - it hurt. They would sit tears streaming over their reddened cheeks - their father would scold them not to cry - not to encourage her nonsense. She would tell them she tried to love them, tried to be a good mother, but she couldn't do it.
But this night the bedroom door wasn't flung open.
This night his father was sick of stopping her.
And the boy prayed to a god he didn't believe in - to give him her pain, to give him every ounce of her hurt, every wrong doing, every horrible thing - to fill every inch of his slight 70lb frame - with blackness. He clenched his fists and he gritted his teeth - he wouldn't cry - he wouldn't think - he wouldn't dream - he wouldn't hope - he needed room for her pain - he HAD to take it all - if he did this - this one thing - she wouldn't leave him.
He woke the next morning.
A fever was raging through his body, he coughed and coughed and coughed, his throat swelled and he found it hard to swallow.
Chills traveled his small spine and tripped over his pajama bottoms to reach his toes.
He had valley fever and spent most of the summer in bed.
...and she stayed.
Friday, September 13, 2002
Good Enough For Here
I've laid waste to thoughts of my wasted, forgotten, though sometimes enjoyed youth - dispersing the painful, embracing the cheerful and pondering the meaningful.
Lately I find myself looking at myself as if a ancient building, the one on the corner made of well-worn faded red brick. You've passed every day on the way to work for as long as you could remember. But then one day comes and calls upon you - for whatever reason - to know the details of that building - it's heighth, it's age, it's character - and much like that I now often stop and stare at my reflection in the mirror and wonder :
what are you built from ?
what constitutes your foundation?
how strong do you stand?
who lives inside?
I look back on my youth - at 33 I recognize I have so many years ahead of me - but they are the years that will be guided with agressively-gained experience and not with a more innocent and sexual yearning to be broken in.
I look back on the times of my "firsts", always somehow intermingled with the times of heartache - not the kind a man feels, but a boy feels.
So tonight I find myself reflecting on a man named "Sam". He always lead me by at least 8 years of life - and the funny thing with age , you can never catch up. Sam was all things - many of them my idea of perfection - from the smile, to the hair, to the walk, to the cock - and he fell into my life again and again from 17 - 23. To me Sam was the unobtainable - to Sam - I was the "sure thing". An odd mixture - my youthful yearning for what I considered to better than me - and for him, a pup-tent's erection and a few beers south of drunk - I was "good enough for here". He never took me on a date, asked me out to dinner, brought me flowers, or gave me a valentine...but in those five years, I found his mouth on mine, his ass riding my cock, his smile carefully aimed - to win my affection. Book stores, public parks - he would seek me out, fire alive, desire unrequited...but at dinner parties and dance clubs I was the guy against the wall - propped up by his friends. To him I had my time and place and only when I was "good enough for here".
I see him now and then - aging less well, than better.
And I wonder if he knows how much a call the next day might have meant,
a night at the movies could have been magic
and when he smiles at me from across the bar - that smile - I wonder if he knows
....I'm thinking he might not just be "good enough for here".
...coming to the end of another day and another week in the land of grueling personal sacrifice....of course I do really like the new Dolce & Gabbana jeans I bought last night - so, ok I'm a sell out, I deserve the empty professional experience. Took my boss and my ex out to dinner last night at "Eleve". It was nice.
....what, oh yeah I mentioned my ex without swearing or crying or ranting or raving, um - when did that come about - well I have been awful quiet now haven't I.
...yes there are details and events and such to explain - but I feel I'll jinx it if I talk about it.
Let's just say this:
I had a date for my brothers wedding in Vegas.
I flew the date up the day of the wedding when I realized I couldn't imagine any other human being in the world standing next to me.
I may have discussed - elements of a subject some people call "reconcilliation" (and I may have even mispelled it) with the date over the next few days.
I am intending to move very slowly - think dating but the person already knows what you like in bed.
I do honestly believe as much as I believed before that I was meant to share my life with this person.
Ok - maybe I could have picked a better day than Friday the 13th to break this news anyway.
Great - bet my readership just flew out the window
;)
....what, oh yeah I mentioned my ex without swearing or crying or ranting or raving, um - when did that come about - well I have been awful quiet now haven't I.
...yes there are details and events and such to explain - but I feel I'll jinx it if I talk about it.
Let's just say this:
I had a date for my brothers wedding in Vegas.
I flew the date up the day of the wedding when I realized I couldn't imagine any other human being in the world standing next to me.
I may have discussed - elements of a subject some people call "reconcilliation" (and I may have even mispelled it) with the date over the next few days.
I am intending to move very slowly - think dating but the person already knows what you like in bed.
I do honestly believe as much as I believed before that I was meant to share my life with this person.
Ok - maybe I could have picked a better day than Friday the 13th to break this news anyway.
Great - bet my readership just flew out the window
;)
Thursday, September 12, 2002
funny...the more active my mind is - often the less likely I am to come forth with the words I need to evoke the rapid relay of sizzling synapses popping in my brain.
the following things - I can safely declare - have not happened in any particular order.
the following things - I can safely declare - have not happened in any particular order.
- I have not come to realize my greater gift to give, or place on this earth.
- I have not shed the bothersome 10lbs that hangs out with me all summer long - daring, mocking and haranguing me - each time I wish to pull my shirt off.
- For said reason - I have not sat indian style shirtless in front of anyone for as long as I can remember.
- I have not made love to a stripper (at least female) while in Vegas, no matter how hot and flirtatious they were.
- I have not done drugs since the night after Mikes memorial.
- I have not quit my job and I have not admitted to myself that I can't forsake it for fear of being poor.
- I have not lost my ability to take everything too personally and feel deeply hurt by the simpliest of actions.
- I have not fully embraced my mantra "On a High" - though at some moments I feel closer to it than others.
- I have not spoken of many things in my past that might shock you.
- I have not spoken of certain things in my now that will surprise you.
- I have not become any more clever or unique in the preparation of these lists.
Wednesday, September 04, 2002
...I would love to tell you I've been dancing the salsa of good humor and chesire cat grins all day
...I would love to tell you I slayed some dragons, enhanced my self-esteem and made hot passionate love today
...I would love to tell you I cured cancer with a simple combination of chocolate, Merchant-Ivory films and back-rubs
but, I didn't.
Instead I had the most insanely horrific conversation/arguement/verbal haranguing with the owner of the retail side of the house. His pathetic paranoia, his overly inflated ego, his cruel and abrupt method of conducting conversations through personal assaults, his ability to take a meaningless phrase and begin a diatribe on the wrongs of everyone around him. I have never - ever had a person speak to me in this manner - ending with a backhanded side ways comment about my sexuality. I had to bring forth every fiber of my human condition to not rip his fucking head from his body and shove it up his conceited, myoptic, lunatic Mormon ass. I endured threats to my career, to my future and to my livelihood from a man who is neither my boss, my coworker or my friend. What a time to be giving up drugs, easing back on booze and avoiding casual sex...I want to destroy something - I want to hear something - someone - snap in my strong deliberate hands. I willing want to quit my job and walk back in there and shove my 6 figure salary down his throat - I have grown weary of working for others - I have grown sick of being a sponge for bull-shit - I want to quit this 3 ring circus and be a god damn monk without a dime to his name.
deep breath...whooooooooooooooo.
...I would love to tell you I slayed some dragons, enhanced my self-esteem and made hot passionate love today
...I would love to tell you I cured cancer with a simple combination of chocolate, Merchant-Ivory films and back-rubs
but, I didn't.
Instead I had the most insanely horrific conversation/arguement/verbal haranguing with the owner of the retail side of the house. His pathetic paranoia, his overly inflated ego, his cruel and abrupt method of conducting conversations through personal assaults, his ability to take a meaningless phrase and begin a diatribe on the wrongs of everyone around him. I have never - ever had a person speak to me in this manner - ending with a backhanded side ways comment about my sexuality. I had to bring forth every fiber of my human condition to not rip his fucking head from his body and shove it up his conceited, myoptic, lunatic Mormon ass. I endured threats to my career, to my future and to my livelihood from a man who is neither my boss, my coworker or my friend. What a time to be giving up drugs, easing back on booze and avoiding casual sex...I want to destroy something - I want to hear something - someone - snap in my strong deliberate hands. I willing want to quit my job and walk back in there and shove my 6 figure salary down his throat - I have grown weary of working for others - I have grown sick of being a sponge for bull-shit - I want to quit this 3 ring circus and be a god damn monk without a dime to his name.
deep breath...whooooooooooooooo.
Tuesday, September 03, 2002
Great work-out.
It's stupid but I know I push harder when there are boys there that trip my switch and tonight there were three. I hate it though - you come back home and the adrenelin is coarsing through your veins at the speed of the raging white water rapids - and all my blood is racing away from my brain and thumping up and down some place else.
So I sit here thinking maybe I should do a stags leap over to a local watering hole. Throw on some jeans and a tight T while the muscles still feel all pumped - feel that thrill of eye-contact, the first sip of a cold beer trickling down my throat, possibility of a little back seat action.
Maybe I should throw on some shorts and a tank top - not even shower and hit the bookstore - listen to a crisp dollar pulled in to the machine - whirrrrr - watch a dirty movie and feel my heart racing waiting for something to happen - an anonymous encounter - a furious fuck and suck session - shoot my load in his face and don't even bother to ask his name.
Maybe I should call the Ex - whisper about loneliness - hint about horniness - what ?? am I naked ? yeah - just step out of the shower -why - pause - what are you doing - he could come racing over, eager, hungry to taste me to be at home with me inside him - passion erupting, friction and fire each of us pounding our anger, our sadness, our emptiness away.
Or maybe I'll play with the dog and write out some bills and jack-off again and watch the Daily Show - then crawl into the bed - without him, without whoever I used to be, without the skin I've grown so comfortable wearing all this time. Will the sheets seem smoother or will I wake up shivering in the middle of the night, confused from a terrible nightmare about a life gone wrong ?
It's stupid but I know I push harder when there are boys there that trip my switch and tonight there were three. I hate it though - you come back home and the adrenelin is coarsing through your veins at the speed of the raging white water rapids - and all my blood is racing away from my brain and thumping up and down some place else.
So I sit here thinking maybe I should do a stags leap over to a local watering hole. Throw on some jeans and a tight T while the muscles still feel all pumped - feel that thrill of eye-contact, the first sip of a cold beer trickling down my throat, possibility of a little back seat action.
Maybe I should throw on some shorts and a tank top - not even shower and hit the bookstore - listen to a crisp dollar pulled in to the machine - whirrrrr - watch a dirty movie and feel my heart racing waiting for something to happen - an anonymous encounter - a furious fuck and suck session - shoot my load in his face and don't even bother to ask his name.
Maybe I should call the Ex - whisper about loneliness - hint about horniness - what ?? am I naked ? yeah - just step out of the shower -why - pause - what are you doing - he could come racing over, eager, hungry to taste me to be at home with me inside him - passion erupting, friction and fire each of us pounding our anger, our sadness, our emptiness away.
Or maybe I'll play with the dog and write out some bills and jack-off again and watch the Daily Show - then crawl into the bed - without him, without whoever I used to be, without the skin I've grown so comfortable wearing all this time. Will the sheets seem smoother or will I wake up shivering in the middle of the night, confused from a terrible nightmare about a life gone wrong ?
...so, are there any Vegas bloggers out there ? I'll be in your shimmery city Thursday - Sunday for my big brothers wedding. Think I'll hit the bars in search of fun and frivolity on Friday night (well not to much of either - I'm trying to play it a bit low key this weekend)...if so, or you have advice on where to go - let me know.
Monday, September 02, 2002
Another List of Implications, Contradictions and Inspirations:
- My dog is soooo frigging fantastic it hurts.
- I can't believe someone who called me had the balls to call me after me explaining to them for an hour why they need professional counseling and then find out this morning they've been spending quite a bit of time chasing after my ex as well.
- Gay men are bitches in heat and horny dogs looking for the next leg - at the exact same time
- I survived the bathing suit experiences and felt pretty good about myself doing it - but somehow managed to shift the neurosis to my growing bald spot instead.
- I am hornier then shit - jacking off 5 times a day - and managed to turn down each prospect I had at easy sex this weekend. I guess I really need to decide which side of the street I want to drive on.
- I started reading again - but embarrased to say I had to start with a collection of short stories since my attention span is shorter than my sideburns.
- From the reactions of people to seeing me in person at two different parties this weekend - I guess I successfully have become one helluva hermit.
- I'm not sure I know how to let go of the people I love.
- I only have one ex-boyfriend who hates me - and he hates me with such a deep-seated loathing - that it can be felt from across the bar, even when I'm still standing in the parking lot. I feel sorry for him that after 10 years he still can't let that hate go.
- I ran into someone I dated 3 years ago and really enjoyed talking to him - so much so I think I had a raging boner for the next couple of hours while seeing the movie "1 Hour Photo" - do you know how disturbing it is to think someone might see you with a hard-on at a movie like that ?
- No matter how many list snippets I do - I just can't get myself to sit down and do the 100 list one.
Sunday, September 01, 2002
Who thought up "Pool Parties" ??
I find nothing more unnerving then standing around a pool in an ill-fitting square cut (if it looks great on your ass - it's mashing down your dick and balls, if it's pronouncing your package with flourish and fancy - it's flattening your ass...so I chicken out and feel too neurotic and end up wearing "jams") - I thought we no longer called them that - but my West Coast friends claim indeed we do.
It will all be less upsetting if I only had to survive this retail queens Marque de Swimsuit weekend doing this yesterday - but I have a scant 5 hours to dream up more scantily-clad attire for another pool party today and one tomorrow. I have 4 swim trunks left to choose from:
...sigh.
What are the lines to "Serenity Prayer" again ?
I find nothing more unnerving then standing around a pool in an ill-fitting square cut (if it looks great on your ass - it's mashing down your dick and balls, if it's pronouncing your package with flourish and fancy - it's flattening your ass...so I chicken out and feel too neurotic and end up wearing "jams") - I thought we no longer called them that - but my West Coast friends claim indeed we do.
It will all be less upsetting if I only had to survive this retail queens Marque de Swimsuit weekend doing this yesterday - but I have a scant 5 hours to dream up more scantily-clad attire for another pool party today and one tomorrow. I have 4 swim trunks left to choose from:
- The Dark Blue Robin Piccone square cut - which is meant to cut on the legs to show glorious bulging hamstrings and raging muscles pushing my buttucks high in the air - for Christ Sakes I'm 33 - I've got good legs and a nice ass - but this bathing suit seemed a lot sexier on me in the store then in bright sunlight.
- The Khaki, Olive and Blue Plaid Whittall & Shon - trunks at a square cut length - no lycra....really, really flattering - simple, kinda sweet preppy boy showing some skin - 'cept one problem...no mesh thing to hold everything in place underneath - I hope in the water everything is gonna come floating out like passengers off the Titanic.
- The Orange, Red and White Plaid J Crew with the velcro fly - I comment - their liars - someone switched the tag - it says 32 and they all say 32 - but I squeeze into this thing as gracefully as Anna Nicole Smith eats food. I can't even try it on or I'll never leave the house again.
- The Red, Green and Blue Plaid Sauvage swimsuit - well - it fits well - no love handles, ass and legs look nice - waistline cuts right at my tan line which kinda works - a bit too tight in the crotch - but if I start to get hard it won't stick straight out - but I know the pressure on my balls is gonna have me "adjusting and readjusting" myself constantly and the other pool party guest are gonna complain I keep touching myself (well maybe not todays pool party - um, I'm worried some people may not keep their bathing suits on - well I mean - I wouldn't mind if some of them didn't but I mean really then you have to deal with the ones who you wouldn't want to see do that and then suddenly you realize that your just rambling on and on and on....)
...sigh.
What are the lines to "Serenity Prayer" again ?
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