The Over-Educated Nympho

With work deadlines quickly becoming a distant and distasteful memory, I’m looking forward to leaving town tomorrow morning to spend Christmas with my family. Dad has promised tequila, Mom promised cookies, Little-Big Bro promised a trip to Best Buy, and Little-Little Bro agreed to make a gingerbread house with me because we are equally lame bursting with the Cool gene. If history serves me correctly, I will be coming down with a nasty cold around Sunday/Monday and I will be too miserable todding like dis to enjoy the normal holiday festivities, but that’s what Dad’s in/famous moonshine-based “cough syrup” is for.

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Just past midnight my hit counter broke 500,000. It was only six and a half months ago that I had 200,000 hits. I like the way this is going. If I could do math before coffee, I’d be way excited about the next year’s projections. I am totally booty-shaking in my head right now. Will booty-shake for real when coffee kicks in.

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After receiving a delightfully large year-end bonus, I decided that I was going to buy one fun thing (not that getting the brakes on my car fixed isn’t a barrel full of jollies–weee, look at me stop suddenly!, and I don’t think buying more clothes for work to replace all the shirts with food stains and pants with coffee stains is exciting but more of a professional requirement so that I don’t out myself as being a dumbass who has been playing grown-up all this time).

On Friday I decided that I was going to walk into a nice jewelry store and buy myself whatever the fuck I wanted.

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After a stressful and crappy morning at the office, I went out for lunch at the mall to clear my head. I had actually hissed at a coworker earlier that morning. Not a “haha that Vix is so funny!” inner monologue hiss, I mean hisssssss hiss.

I sipped my drink and stared off toward the crowd of people walking past. Whenever I go out somewhere I make sure to position myself for the best people-watching. She’s got a nice skirt.. he’s eating a giant M&M cookie! where can I acquire a giant cookie such as this?!.. cute kid.. fugly bastard, is it too hard to shower every day?.. ooh pretty shoes!.. nice guy with cute glasses..
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To all my beloved readers who have written amazing personal emails and comments in response to Is It Enough To Keep Breathing, all I can think to say is “wow.” I know as a writer I’m supposed to be all poetic and shit, but sometimes, just… wow.

And that is why I write. It is not a one-way street here, not one fucking bit. Thank you.

Wow.

Today my site traffic hit an all-time high in every possible stat category. According to my referrals page, someone [who is beyond awesome. That’s right sweetie, nothing less than a capital “A” for your degree of Awesomeness] submitted my site to Stumbleupon.com and since then I have had a record 2700 visitors in one day. Holy sweet fuck. There were 215 visitors in one hour. I remember how excited I was to get that in one day, which only happened a year ago. Wow. I said it then and I’ll say it again, it’s exciting as hell to think where I could be one year from now.

–mouth drops–

Well shit, now I REALLY need to get laid. For the sake of the blog. Giggity.

Here is a little something that one of my favorite readers wrote me the other day in response to this post. The poem made me squeal with pure delight, which of course meant I had to share it on the blog like all other things that make me squeal. I wish I could take credit for writing such a clever poem, but unfortunately “Ode To Creepy Old Men” is the extent of my poetic ability.

A cubicle monkey named Vix
Finds herself in a terrible fix.
She fumed and she pouted,
But lest she be outed
She labors from nine until six.

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A reader-friend of mine recently started up a site called 5 Minutes to Live. It’s fascinating to read people’s responses to the question–

If you had 5 minutes to live what three things would you do?

Please either send me an email at 5minutestolive@gmail.com (which I prefer) with your answer as well as your first name and initial as well as where you are writing from. OR you can go to 5minutestolive.blogspot.com and post your answer as a comment which I will then publish.

As well you may include any links that you want to share with people. Be sure to put them in the email or comment.

He told me about it a couple weeks ago and since then I’ve spent a lot of time coming up with my answer. It’s not nearly as easy as I thought it would be, because I didn’t want to say anything obvious or trite. I finally sent in my response to what I would do with five minutes to live which you can read here. Although I just re-read the email and I was only supposed to submit three things. Oopsies. Well, rules were made to be broken for a reason, and who gives a damn about rules when you have five minutes left to live?

Today is one of those days when I am so sick of staring at my computer at work that I feel like crying. Nothing particularly bad has happened today, it’s just another ordinary day. Which is exactly the fucking point.

I’m a cubicle monkey. I have three bosses, and today I found out I have a fourth (who will tell me what to do but won’t answer my questions that only he can answer). I check the clock every two minutes, although sometimes I check it so often that the time hasn’t changed, proving that time can stand still. I have a closer relationship with my monitor at work than I do with two of my four bosses.

And I work at a good office. It was five times worse when I worked at Douchebag Incorporated, but my Xanax intake has decreased dramatically since changing jobs.

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Before you shriek in terror at C-U-Next-Tuesday and minimize your browser window, hear me out.

I dig cunt. The word, the sisterhood of fuck-me feminism, slipping my fingers inside, and all those other things cunt embodies–I feel it inside and out.

Cunt is not something I will ever be ashamed of. Many people try to take it away from me with disapproving finger-shaking or a snarl of contempt, but fuck that shit. It’s not about what they think. It’s about me, and let me tell you sweetie, I love my cunt.

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Last time I moved it was from a “we” apartment to a “me” apartment. I spent the first night alone in my apartment as a newly single girl with red wine and Oreos. It was fantastic. It was the first moment of pride I had felt in a long time.

I expected something similar this time around, but that’s not how it happened even though I was prepared with red wine and a fresh bag of Oreos. It felt too forced, too orchestrated. It lost the magic.

Fine. I drank down my glass of wine and went back to getting settled in my new place.

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When I went to the doctor last week and stepped on the scale, my mouth dropped at what was on the screen before me. 148 pounds [that’s 67 kg for the foreign readers]. I haven’t weighed so little in years, since high school when my birthing hips still had a long way to go. Fuuuuck.

One short year ago I was 173 pounds [78.5 kg]. That’s a twenty-five pound drop. An unintentional twenty-five pound drop. Duuuude.

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