The Over-Educated Nympho

Yeah I’m being very bad today. I called in sick to work. Although I did genuinely have a stomachache and some unpleasantness. I couldn’t eat the cookies I made (whoa. bad news.) I just… exaggerated it enough to keep me out of the office.

It’s a fucking Friday, it’s perfect outside because it finally decided to stop being eightyfuckingfive degrees in the middle of October. I have only missed work (at this company, I skipped once at my last job) when genuinely sick. I deserve a fucking day of hooky.

Besides, I’m cranky. I woke up at four and couldn’t fall back asleep, even after calling my boss this morning. It was really best for everyone that I didn’t go in.

At one office years ago they gave eight sick days and two personal days per year. That was perfect. You could use the personal day as a “I don’t feel like working today and you can go fuck yourself” day. I used both. Why don’t more places do that?

But I still felt totally guilty and told the woman I’m working with on our account that I would come in over the weekend if she needed me to. Dah. Why did I say that. I hope she doesn’t call. Oh dear. —cough— My stomachache has developed a cough.

I just noticed that today I went over 50,000 hits on the nifty Sitemeter thing in the sidebar.

Shiiiiiiiiiiit.

Think about it. Since I started this blog sixteen months ago, people have visited my site FIFTY THOUSAND TIMES. Think about that. If you had that many orgasms in sixteen months, you’d, like, die. From too much pleasure.

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I admit it. I’m messy. I’m a pack rat. My place looks like the worst of bachelor pads, and I’m a fucking chick.

Just a tittily bit embarassing. Although in proper bachelor fashion, most of the time I don’t give a fuck. I’d rather spend my time reading or writing, not doing dishes.

The only thing that can make me really clean my apartment properly? The chance of getting laid. (Are all of you keeping your kegels crossed for me? Here’s hoping that the guy at Barbie’s party comes through tomorrow night.) Again, in total bachelor fashion.

The last time I was single there were many a time when I only cleaned my apartment right before a date or a hook-up. By “cleaned,” what I really mean is: hide dirty dishes inside oven, shove dirty clothes under bed, vacuum just enough to get the little lines in the carpet, rinse out wine glasses, and make sure that the only underwear lying around is of the lace variety. Oh, and that there was beer in the fridge. But by “beer in the fridge” what I usually meant was “good scotch in the pantry.” (Last time I was single I really hated my job and that’s when my alcohol tolerance began to improve/worsen dramatically.)

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