I Actually Pay Cash for The Experience

Words of advice:

Don’t ever go ten years without visiting a dentist. Not like I did.

Even though I only have two small cavities, my tartar buildup was spectacular.

I thought I’d chipped a tooth a few weeks back, but as it turned out, I just lost a big chunk of tartar.

So gross.

And the dental cleaning was all sorts of traumatizing. I had no idea there were such large gaps between my bottom teeth. They had been filled up with ten years of tartar.

And the bloodshed. Good heavens, it was like a scene from a horror movie.

But I got a new pink toothbrush for being such a good girl, so I guess things aren’t all that bad.

Hot Iron Fist

Ow
Ow
Ow

Ow
Ow

Ow
Ow

My uterus hurts something fierce.

Like a Fox in a Hen House, Strike and Strike Hard

Sometimes all it takes is a new perspective to change everything.

Learned a valuable life lesson this weekend, one that I’m going to share with all the ladies in the city.

I had a conversation with a girlfriend about men and their apparent apathy in regards to the dating scene.

Why don’t guys show any interest in fucking/dating anymore? I can’t even remember the last time a viable dude hit on me. By viable, I mean nice looking guys around my age who are into the same things I’m into. Nothing outrageous, just regular guys.

She was going through the same scenario, and had had the same conversation with other girlfriends. The dudes are apathetic.

So I talked to two trusted male friends about this, and they gave me the exact same answer:

The dudes are scared.

Scared of offending us. Feeling that approaching a pretty lady to offer her a drink and some light conversation will be seen as sexist. So they do nothing and everyone loses.

Until now.

Because of this cross-gender breakthrough communication, we have found the answer.

It’s our turn to take the wheel, girls.

These guys aren’t going to change. They were brought up in the post women’s liberation movement, and so were we.

We no longer wait by the phone, with baited breath, hoping Prince Charming will call. Even our mothers called that old fashioned. It’s time we put our money where our respective mouths are. We get up off our lazy asses and pick out our own princes.

I personally prefer to choose which man deserves to share with me a shot of Irish Whiskey and some light conversation. If he turns me down, I don’t take the rejection too seriously, I’ll just cast my line back into the ocean and reel in another.

It gets easier with practice, trust me.

Anyway, they usually say yes.

Don’t get me wrong, this is by no means a one way street. You are not expected to do all the menial work, ladies. These guys have to pull their own weight, too. Just don’t wait around for them to start things up, they’re too chicken.

Ladies Initiate, Fellas Reciprocate. New world order, pass it on.

Or Maybe a Realistic Robot

I am so hungry.

For food, mostly.

Even though I have been eating my weight in junk these past couple of weeks, I could still eat more.

My appetite knows no satiety.

I actually ate McDonald’s last week. A Big Mac combo, and I threw out the Coke, after taking a single timid sip (remember, I quit drinking pop recently, but was curious about what my reaction would be. Luckily McDonald’s pop is watered down, or I’d have even another delicious monkey on my back), but I inhaled the rest in less than ten minutes. I don’t think I actually chewed.

I eat fast food once a year, on average. Maybe twice; I had a bite of my friend’s Happy Meal back in December, which counts for something.

But why am I so hungry?

Not just hungry for food, although that has been the primary craving, but also for man.

The week before last, I went out four times, got drunk four times and made out with three different men. The one night I didn’t score was because I was entertaining Roommate, the night was kind of a bust for everyone involved, our plans were marred from the beginning. On the other nights, I did that whole point and choose method that I so enjoy, and I really enjoyed the respective experiences.

Initially, I’d thought that it would make me feel better about myself, after this endless dry spell, to rest assured knowing that I could still be attractive in the eyes of hot strangers. I rubbed their crotches to make sure, and sure enough, they had hard cocks, even while piss drunk.

Unfortunately, the good feelings were short lived.

I did not develop any lasting confidence that anyone would want anything to do with me the next day. Not that I was honestly after any of the men in question, they were just handsome and drunken experiments, but generally speaking I just don’t meet men of quality who find any interest in me, drunk or otherwise, beyond my most obvious and trivial assets.

No one gives a shit about personality anymore. It’s either the good girls with merit whose husbands get bored and come on to me in the back of a taxi while we search fruitlessly for a boozecan, or sleazy girls.

Sleazy girls like me.

And I didn’t want to be THAT GIRL. I mean, I recognize that I have the tendency toward sleaziness, I drink and smoke and swear and enjoy fucking and hate health clubs and eat all kinds of meat and strip down in public shamelessly for “art” and mess around with chicks when the feeling strikes me.

But there’s always more than one dimension.

I also care about things. I have good friends, I like to read, I have a family who loves me and is planning on taking me out for a post birthday dinner knowing full well that I’ll be hungover as hell, I have a good rapport with most cats, I like to learn new things, and I laugh a lot, I see beautiful things almost every day of my life that make me want to cry, and I’ve been both in love and in loved back more than once.

Those two paragraphs seem so unrelated, when they are referring to the same person.

Just saying, sleazy girls need love, too.

Fake Man, Real Man, Rich Man, Too

Things I learned this week:

1)Most people don’t have imaginary boyfriends/girlfriends.

2)Some men can smell a woman’s crotch when together in an enclosed space.

3)Jonathan Richman was really hot when he was young.

1)People have imaginary friends when they are children, so why not make one up as an adult? I’ve been making up imaginary boyfriends for myself since I was a lonely teenager, dealing with my first and hardest heartbreak . Their names, backgrounds, personalities and appearances have changed throughout the years, but the need has remained the same.

I need these fantasy men to get me through my winters, my break ups, my dry spells, and my never ending loneliness, which can be excruciating at times. Basically, wherever real life men fall short, these fake men pick up the slack.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid of real men, not by a long shot. That is something else I learned this week, by the way.

I have no problem asserting myself and pursuing the men of my choice. Basically, once I have a few drinks under my belt(or not, I’ve done it sober too, and it’s slightly more daunting, but still possible), I pick someone out and go for it.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but once I developed a callous over the part of my heart that deals with rejection (it happened at some point in 2007), I was able to approach men with nary a shake.

It ain’t love, after all. It ain’t even a crush most of the time, just some random fox who I’d like to bag.

2)Gross. I had no idea men could smell crotches like that. In enclosed spaces, like an elevator. Apparently it’s a turn on to straight men, so long as it’s a regular musky scent, and not some putrid, yeast infected, maxi pad odour.

I had an acquaintance ask me once if I were premenstrual, and I’d initially thought it was because we’d been discussing my cranky mood. It was a week before my period was due, and I told him so. As it turned out, he could SMELL my PMS. Pheromones, man, what can’t they do?

3)Jonathan Richman. Fuck yeah. Looks like Pretend Shane MacGowan has some competition.

Snip

To My Dearest Finnegan Wellington Charlesworth,

I have done us both wrong, and now it is time to dispose of you, with safety and with love.

There once was a time when you served a purpose, but in recent months, you have been nothing but an albatross about my neck. You worked well when I first needed you; yet I had no idea you were merely a single serving.

So I thank you for breaking the ties that once bound, and now I am letting you go.

Be free, Finnegan Wellington Charlesworth, to do as you please, to give comfort to other lady friends in need.

Although, I may still be in need of some comfort, I have outgrown you like an old shoe. I am willing to go it alone, and would prefer to do so without your now useless presence.

We never loved each other, but we gave help where help was needed.

I hope that next time, I can achieve my goals without the use of successful sorcery, and I hope that you will leave the next gal in better condition than when you first arrived, much like you did with me.

Fondly, and never yours,

Miss Mavis

Red

Last night, I went out, and had a strange experience with the colour red.

I was in a dark bar, the Drake Underground. Everything that was red stood out in stark contrast to the rest of my environment.

Clothing mostly, but I ended up carrying a large red feather home, too. Taken from the coat check. I don’t know why they had a bundle of colourful feathers, and I don’t care, either.

Also, while outside smoking, I gave change to a guy in a red jacket. The guy returned some time later and showed me the pizza slice he’d bought with the change. That was both weird and friendly.

At some point, I picked out the most attractive man in red, who also happened to be a redhead (extra points, I suppose) and shared with him a shot and a smoke.

Yeah, that was one hot ginger. Even with his fly unzipped, still foxy.

A Dream

I had a dream that I was in the back seat of a car driven by my mom.

Beside me in the car were an acquaintance, who was a twelve year old child in the dream, and her mother. The acquaintance had had an operation that went wrong, and her organs were all twisted and sewn into each other.

We were rushing to get her fixed up.

It was dusk, winter, and we were driving down a country road.

The acquaintance’s mother was superstitious, she started to panic when she saw a white horse with a beige patch stumbling in the snowy field to our right (her side of the car). The horse was dying.

The acquaintance was crying, and I started to pray.

I recited the Lord’s Prayer, and gained strength as I spoke it. I managed to kill the panic, and with that, possibly save the dying girl.

Stupid Water

I have completed dress #4.

Tomorrow, I shall complete #5, and, energy willing, start up on dresses #6 and #7.

I am somewhat out of sorts, you see. I chipped a tooth yesterday, and suspect my longtime cola habit to be the main culprit in the tooth decay that led to the chipping.

So I swore off the cola, which should be interesting. I’ve been loving that shit since I was two, and drinking it nearly every single day of my adult life.

It’s only been two days, and I’m worried that I’ll go into withdrawal sometime tomorrow. I can already feel a slight change in my body chemistry.

For example, my senses of taste and smell have improved. Everything I ate today (mostly soft foods, so as not to exacerbate my situation), tasted really good.

Hmm, I was wrong. My withdrawal has already started. Wow, I think I’d just about kill for a Pepsi right now. Cold, fizzy, sugary, heaven. Like the semen of angels.

Damn.

My stupid tooth might very well save me from diabetes. Or stomach cancer. Kidney failure. Pancreatic failure. Gout. Heart disease. Female hysteria.

For now, I’m going to keep smoking.

I actually feel healthier already. I had no idea pop was so destructive.