The Over-Educated Nympho

Well, shit. My first day of work went fine, but considering that I woke up at 3:30 am on the second day is not the ideal way to continue the reign of fine-ness. It is however, an excellent way of continuing to FREAK THE FUCK OUT. ARGGHHHHHHHHHH

I start work tomorrow.

–looking around suspiciously, awaiting leprechaun’s appearance during which he will surely say “HAHA, it was just a mere joke, my lass! Silly girl!” before he disappears in a puff of glitter and marshmallows–

I’m not nervous, I swear. Totally. Not. Nervous.

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Ladies everywhere (yes I know no one who reads this blog is really a lady, but saying “women” sounds too much like a cry to battle, when really this is a celebration of sorts), go to your nearest newstand and buy the September issue of GQ. Right now.

The first fifty pages are just ads. OF BEAUTIFUL MEN. Then there’s the table of contents. Then twenty pages of ads of BEAUTIFUL MEN. Then some articles (which I went back and read after I finished pleasuring myself about six times) which are actually quite funny and well-written and informative, so it’s perfectly conceivable to get your boyfriend to subscribe, unbeknowngst to him, to a magazine full of BEAUTIFUL MEN.

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I don’t have anything to wear to work. This can’t be happening. It’s every eighteen year-old intern’s nightmare coming true: showing up to work for her first day, naked.

“But that’s why I got the job, sir, so I could afford to buy clothes!”

“I know I stripped my way through college, but it barely covers my loans!”

“No one ever taught me how to work the washer/dryer.”

“What? I forgot my clothes?! Well I’ll be a sonofabitch. I told you I wasn’t a morning person!”

“Shit, my A.D.D. is bad.”

I’ve had many jobs before, but the last one was before grad school. I didn’t realize how long it had been since I’d sat in a cheap office chair and stared at my four foot high walls in complete boredom.

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That’s right, I randomly accidentally didn’t-try-very-hard got a job. A real 401(k)-toting grown-up job. Oh dear.

I’ve had office jobs before, but they were all during school. I was always an intern. I always asked for my own business card, I never got one because I wasn’t important enough, so I printed my own on Office Depot business card **smooth edges** paper that–of course–always had a faint sign of perforated edges that all but sang JUST AN INTERN JUST AN INTERN. No more of that. I won’t even have to beg. My desk won’t be in the Marketing section. They won’t ask me to work the phones during lunch while the receptionist is gone, and I won’t have to assert my forthright independence by putting Sweet N Low in my boss’s coffee instead of Nutrasweet!!

But this folks, is a REAL job. Not only will I not be an intern, but I’ll be expected to work my ass off so I can get a promotion as soon as I learn not to cuss when I talk on the phone. That means I get R-E-S-P-O-N-S-I-B-I-L-I-T-Y. And RESPECT. Sing it with me, sisters!

Fuckfuckfuckfuck. I’m not sure I can handle this. I still can’t even remember to feed myself regularly.

——-

(that was me, passing out)

Although of course now that I’ve publicly stated all my big grand ideals about how I won’t be Coffee Bitch, I’m sure as soon as I start on Monday they’ll put me on the dusty 486 computer that only runs DOS and I’ll spend all day punching out my new INTERN business cards from their perforated edges.

BF and I have been together for over a year. We’ve been living together unofficially and then officially for most of that time. We’ve met each other’s families. We own a dog together. We’ve taken vacations together. In spite of all these major rites of passage we’ve made together, including still being able to have sex with each other after a fight about skid marks, there is one major rite that I have not been able to undergo.

His underwear. It has to go. Too many holes and popped elastic bands and permanently “miscolored” pair (a-hem, hence the fight on skid marks).

I’m not talking about a couple pair, I’m talking about half the contents of his underwear drawer. Some of these are from when he was in high school, which was yeeeeears ago. I mean, the guy was ruthless in our selection of curtains for our new apartment (please note that I am the one who watches HGTV, he’s just a metrosexual and apparently he thinks that makes him god of color choice), and yet he doesn’t mind ratty-tatty-fresh-and-fruity underwear from the time of 90210.

Like, ew.

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If I were a superhero, I’d be one mean bitch-slappin’ motherfucker. I can’t decide whether my weapon of choice would be a baseball bat or the mean four-inch tall stiletto heels I’d be wearing as part of my superhero outfit.

I’m not sure what evil enemies I’d go after. Generally I think I’d go after anyone who pissed me off. So if you’re watching the news tonight and notice a scantily dressed chick with a dog collar and thick black secretary-style glasses dragging President Bush off a podium, you can be sure that’s me. That man needs some serious bitch-slapping.

I’m terribly sorry I didn’t write yesterday, my first day back home. And I’ve started about six posts today, but none of them were funny, witty, enlightening, or even remotely amusing. I think I forgot my sense of humor abroad.

Besides the general unfunniness, I’ve been wallowing in self-pity over my depression, possible ADD, and other faults obstructing my life from going anywhere. So while in such a mood, I will keep the pity party to myself and report back tomorrow with hopefully anything besides the crap I threw up in my mouth today.

Made it home, will be up tomorrow bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (um, and bushy in other places… didn’t pack all my grooming supplies, besides it was so cold we always did it under the covers and I don’t think he even noticed) and will resume my normal tirade against the world. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go re-locate my pussy in the wild.