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| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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The Demon Who Wants You to Be on Her Side
Man, yesterday was the day. Not only do I post a picture imploring people to agree that I am the ugliest woman on the planet, but I also was propositioned (albeit playfully though drunkenly) by one of my better friends in front of her husband--who was, manlike, all for it-- but I also got in a fight with Max because he wouldn't kiss me in a bar. I guess I'll start with the proposition thing. The whole thing started a long time ago as a joke about women "naturally" being bisexual. And it's kind of gone on so that every time one of the women in the crowd expresses the fact that she can't get a man, another woman assumes the obligation to tell her how attractive she is to women and so that man thing? Matters not. So, anyway, last night we're in a bar. (And I'm so carefully not using names, but I will tell you that the bar was Rebar and that bar is always trouble.) I'm sitting with x, Max, and the couple in question. The woman in question had had a few drinks (rum and cokes, whiskey and cokes, and a rum runner and who knows what else and I'd had a few Pelligrinos) and she leaned over and offered to make out with me. I laughed and made a joke about how you have to be pretty drunk to put forth the drunken girl-on-girl make-out in a bar offer, but she kept insisting that she really wanted to. Her husband--who I love love love but who had been trying all night (and failing) to be suave about scoping the cleavage--offered to put his credit card up on the bar ("like Axl Rose") and we could drink until we had reached the drunken girl-on-girl stage, or until 10 a.m.--whichever came first, I suppose. I laughed again. She offered again. And it was then that I decided--no, not to kiss her--but that my cue from now on is no longer going to be the verbal cue but rather must be the non-verbal cue. Yes, from now on, I'm only taking seriously those offers that are accompanied by, say, a hand on the knee or thigh or some other appropriately inappropriate place. So that's the new rule. Let's see how long I can make it stick. I imagine that it will depend on how horny I get. And speaking of horny, there was the Max refusal in the bar last night. It wasn't, I should say, a serious invitation to sex, but rather was meant to piss off some chick who is always flirting with Max and ignoring me. (And last night, she walked into the bar and made eye-contact with him and gave him a cute little wave--you know the kind, where they kind of scrunch up one shoulder and wave like it's a little secret or something) and it's not like this bitch doesn't know who I am because we've had at least two classes together and I'm with Max just about every fucking time she sees him. But she's just one of those women who trades on the attention of men and so me? Well, I can safely be ignored. Or so she thinks. (And, yes, save your breath and your warnings about how useless it is for me to be jealous of women who flirt with the gay ex-husband, because I do actually recognize the inherent stupidity of my own emotional reaction to this particular and particularly absurd situation.) Anyway, if I had been drinking, it would've either been a huge problem or no problem whatsoever. (And I'm guessing that it would've fallen on the huge problem side, you know?) Anyway, to piss her off, when she was leaving, I told Max, "You should put your arm around me and kiss me as she goes past the table." And Max? Refused. That led to a huge fight that lasted several hours. And as I'm not ready to write about that yet, I'm going to leave you right here.
No, I'm not an animal. I'm a nerd who takes my own picture in the mirrors of public restrooms. (This is me, nearing the end of my twelve hour and fifteen minute school day, in the mirror of the non-scarier of the scary bathrooms in the lecture hall that I hate.)
More lies:
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I am not an animal!