The Over-Educated Nympho

Yesterday a production company contacted me about auditioning for an upcoming documentary/reality TV show. This tickled me pink, because I’m pretty sure that I am exactly NOT the type of person they want. They said they are looking for a “nympho character” which I’m assuming translates from TV speak to “slutty ho who’s had every STD and sexual anomaly from Ass-rot to Zucchini Zygote.” I am so not TV material. I will write for TV, but that is completely different. Even if I were interested in auditioning, I wouldn’t do it because I’d like to preserve this whole anonymity thing I’ve got going on. Not that the idea of a permanent black box or yellow smiley face superimposed on my body isn’t hugely amusing when it comes to trying to maneuver that thing for a blowjob.

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Tonight (so chilly!) I bundled up and went to the store
In desperate need of dog food and more
With a grocery cart full of microwave meals
I ran into a girl and nearly squealed
My feet stopped mid-flight
Everything about her was totally right
GodDAMN that girl has a nice ass
I thought to myself while I passed
So round, so full, so BIG
It put mine to shame, really it did

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I’ve been working on my book of blog posts that is hopefully coming out soon. I have a schnazzy title and front cover, but I need some help on the back cover. If you look at the back of any book it has a couple excerpts of reviews from reputable newspapers and magazines. Since this book will be self-published (and is therefore AVAILABLE TO ANY EDITORS/PUBLISHERS who may be randomly passing through), I do not have this option.

What to fill the back cover with? I could make up fake quotations from fake newspapers, like “Brilliantly written with just enough self-loathing to keep the reader engaged, this is clearly the ramblings of a fat middle-aged man with hairy nipples who is trying to trick us all into believing that this alter ego named ‘Vix’ is an accurate personal history of himself as a young woman living in the set of breasts he always wished he had been born with.” –THE NEW YORK TIMES WTF REVIEW.

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On Monday night I was in a miserable state of almost-crying for no discernible reason. Yesterday evening it started up again except this time the tears came out in loud wrenching sobs.

What the fuck? I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING WORTH CRYING ABOUT. Make it stop! I buried my face in a pile of pillows and waited for the stupid crying to end.

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Today has been one of those odd grey days when I almost feel like crying but can’t quite make it. I argue that this is worse than crying because there’s no climax, no relief. I feel like crying but my tears can’t be bothered to show up, the lazy bastards.

When I last saw my boyfriend Tex this afternoon, he had said he might come over later tonight. At the time I was fine (like actually fine, not fake-fine), so I nodded and said “no prob, just let me know.”

A couple hours later I sat down to write but I couldn’t find that groove that usually comes so easily within the first two sentences. I stared at my laptop for half an hour before slamming it closed in defeat. Then I tried a nap, but my mind was racing too much to let me calm down. Next I tried walking the dogs until I realized that I felt tears coming. When I came back home, I tried letting them out. The tears refused. I wanted to reach into my eyeballs and pull them out just to get it over with.

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I’m sure some of you are feeling frustrated that my writing has not been up to its usual level of spunk lately (cough cough suck my left one). I have been concentrating all my efforts on preparing to self-publish a book of blog posts in early December. Cover mock-ups, editing, figuring out shipping (much more complicated than I assumed, even with being able to click and print shipping labels myself), and writing new posts (chapters? pieces?) to add. It’s getting so involved that I dreamed about domestic and international shipping rates last night. Sadly, this is no exaggeration.

Lately I have been receiving lots of questions from readers about my book, which I will do my best to answer here.

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In dating there is an unofficial point system that people go through as they size up potential mates. There are Cool Points, Lame Points, Awesome Points, and flat-out Deal Breakers. Each item has a different point value which is completely arbitrary and probably inconsistent for every person out there. I have put together my own list below as an example.

Some of these may or may not have been the source of finger-pointing and/or a fierce case of giggles between Tex and myself. I’ll give out imaginary cupcakes to all readers who can correctly identify which cool/lame points here are based on actual occurrences. Actually I’ve got about ten years’ worth of dating stories in this list. How fun for me.

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In a little over three years I have written 1000 posts. That’s crazy. Pardon me, that’s crazy-cool. That would be about 25 posts a month except there was a five month dark period in the early days when I barely wrote anything. The 1000th post was actually about a week ago but I only just now thought to check my stats. Want to guess which one it was? Nothing Lifts the Spirit Like a Pretty Day and a 12 Gauge Shotgun. That’s like 10 levels of awesome.

When I first started I wasn’t even thinking about getting to 1000 posts. That was simply too big and too far away. I was thinking about getting 200 visitors a day. That was once a stretch and now I have something like 2000 visitors a day. It’s cool to see how the scale of one’s vision can change.

Here’s to the next 1000 posts.

I spent fifteen hours today working on the book of blog posts I want to self-publish soon. I can’t go through half a quarter of that at the office without whining about how much my job bores me–but here? In spite of the knot between my shoulders and the 1″ thick stack of papers I need to edit, it was wonderful. It wasn’t work. I wish I could spend another fifteen hours on my book tomorrow, but of course there’s this pesky thing called a job I have to tend to.

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Some people have a gift for insults, while the rest of us seem to have been whacked by the shit-wit stick when it comes to making up a more original rebuttal than “jackass”, “jerk-off” or “shitferbrains”. I suffered from this lack of insultatory imagination myself as an adolescent, which did not help an already downward ride to Nerdville. After a few too many times of thinking aha! I know what I’ll say next time! about ten minutes after my brilliant retort would have been useful, I started saving up insults to disperse when necessary.

Now I’m not talking about regular insults, but truly creative ones that are so WTF that they leave the instigator/deserving party speechless. True this is often because what I said made no sense, but that is irrelevant because I just got way with calling someone an ass-hat fuck knuckle.

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In the three weeks that Tex and I have been dating, I have hardly put out. It’s not for lack of wanting to (his ass alone is like two scoops of man cream), it’s just that–this is going to sound so lame–I’ve been too exhausted to feel sexy. Sure I’ve gone through this before, but it’s been a while. And it coincided with depression. Does that mean another bout of depression is coming for me? Nooooo, it can’t! I won’t allow it! I spit in the face of depression. –spits–

Should I be worried? Or can it really be as simple as “I’m tired and stressed the fuck out”? I told Tex from the beginning that I wish I could have waited a few months to meet him, but life is kind of a bitch about doing whatever the hell it wants regardless of how you feel about it.

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Today I asked Favorite Coworker to help me edit my book. Normally I would not ask such a large favor from one of my friends, but Favorite Coworker has secret aspirations to become an editor. Seriously, the girl has some fierce skills when it comes to punctuation. She made a semicolon cry once.

She said yes, and it was not a because I’m so nice yes or a my lips say yes but my TV says no yes, it was a genuinely excited yes. Since Favorite Coworker is relatively new to the blog, she has more distance than I could ever possess. When I’m drowning in the written documentation of my own psyche it’s nice to have someone come slashing through the jumble with her sword (which may be cleverly disguised as a green pen).

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