The hour badly spent

Sorry for being out of touch! My intertubez connection has been kind of wobbly, which has seriously impeded my otherwise steady accumulation of BBW porn (don’t judge me). Also, I’ve been trying to avoid my stalkerey ex. Yeah, I’ve got one of those. And not in the sense of "an enthusiastic follower who just likes me a lot," which is what people in Kansas think a stalker is; no, it’s more like "someone who’s intrusive and crazy and a little bit destructive," which trust me, is soooo much more exciting than the Kansas kind.

Good times, good times. So I’ve been spending my time temping in swank Santa Monica offices as well as furiously groping around for more school money. What’s going on with you guys? Grey Lady? Sexy Communist Spy? Princess Glitter Bunny? Atomic Fireball Candy? Saucy Aussie? Poetess? Sitemeter tells me you all still check in here once in a while (thanks!).

In addition to the money thing and the temping, my friend MiniMii celebrated my return to Los Angeles by taking me to the Wild Goose and springing for my first lap dance ever (don’t click there). And OF COURSE I was gonna write an awesomely cogent blog post about it, transitioning from the viewing of nipples to some revelatory insight on the true nature of man-woman relations, but I got drunk and couldn’t really come up with anything to say about it, except "tits!" which really sums up everything in the world with wit and precision.

Technorati Profile (Don’t click there).

Last night the Poetess observed that, though I visit fairly often, I have more or less been a "perfect gentleman" (I know, right?), having never once tried to "take advantage" of her.

I was kind of embarrassed, because I’ve been trying to cultivate the reputation of a lecherous, alcoholic geezer, and comments like that torpedo the effort of months of vodka and hard work (but mostly vodka). Nevertheless, I managed to think of two responses, both of which I believe were wholly appropriate and classy:

• "Poetess, I always think you are gorgeous, but especially tonight, with that red skirt and your hair slightly tangled and messy. And when you go without your glasses, like you are now, I could practically lose myself in your eyes."
• "I have nothing but the highest regard for your intelligence and wit. Frankly, your ability to pen verse makes me weep with envy. I believe with those things behind you, you will go far in life."

Unfortunately, since I actually tried to say them both at the same time, it came out sounding less like well-mannered verbal cunnilingus, and instead more like "Fuck off, Hippie."

In retrospect, "Fuck off Hippie" does not carry the nuance and depth of the sincere emotion I actually wished to convey regarding her sexiness; therefore, I am deeply sorry for any misunderstanding(s), and will be racking my brain thinking of how to make this up. Does anybody else have any ideas? Anything?

You somehow managed to hail mary right over my trenchant social analyses and hone in on the *other* posts. Those in which I invoke defense mechanisms and feed my delusions of grandeur with alcohol; the posts in which I am pompous, childish, desperate and whiney; petty, self-indulgent, shallow, obnoxious, and worst of all, too prolix (my bad). And in so doing you found that secret thing which unravelled me. Umm, sorry about that whole business, by the way.

And what, exactly, was it? That business?

Yes, there was a party, months ago.

She noticed me. Asked me questions. Got my jokes, even the sly, insiderey one I threw out just to see if anybody was listening. And yes, whatever, I know it was mind-numbingly awful, just like 95% of my "jokes."

Where’d my drink go?
Oh, was that yours, on the table? I finished it off. Forgive me. It was delicious; so sweet, and so cold.
I know what you’re talking about, she said, looking right at me.
Do you now? I tilted my head.

And then, another night, she visited. Said all the right things. The sort of things you secretly always wanted someone to say to you? Those. "But how did she know?" I wondered afterward, dazed and smiling idiotically.

We partied in Lawrence one night. She invited me over some more; parties, get-togethers, studying, until by and by she didn’t. Then it was all missed phone calls, all sorts of excuses not to make dates, and then all of nothing.

As time wore on and the thing ran its course, I grew more ashamed angrier and angrier still with myself. I withdrew, even despite your kind efforts. Yours too, Sexy Communist Spy. Again, my bad.

In hindsight, this experience has helped me decide on something of great social imprtance which I’ve been mulling over for some time; I will no longer hit on any women under 40.

Except Dessa, of course.