Oh my gawd, ya'll I'm so jazzed I'm using the word jazzed. I didn't back out at the last minute from reading at the Bedpost Confessions, and I'm so glad. It was like a great poetry reading on Viagra™ and, in general, that's what poetry readings usually need a little more of, not that they do. I'm even choosing to blog right now rather than watch tv online, but not for long. Actually, while you weren't looking, I went and sold my soul to the devil and called in to get cable, since I saw an ad advertising it to cost only five dollars more to have both cable and internet rather than internet only as I have it now. See, it's already degrading the quality of my blogging.
I am happy to say that the three pieces that I read are pieces I wrote here, here, and here. I actually think the crowd might be ready for Florence Joe and I'm afraid some new material is on order, as I'm now hooked on Kombucha and reading smut aloud to a crowd. I'm pretty sure I know to whom I'm going to write my next Love Letter to a French Arthurian Men I Don't Know, even. Also, I am wondering if more celebrity three-ways might be in order. Oh, the shame.
I survived working 19 days straight even to be bustin' a move all day today too, and tomorrow is a true day off for me. I'm so excited, I just can't shut up. Did I mention the latest episode of Weeds has the awesomest sex scene ever?
Well, I'm actually winded over here. It's past midnight and that means sexy dreams are calling me. Excitedly enough, I had two good sex dreams last night. That was after I wrote this quip on a piece of paper right before I fell asleep:
"is seems like a cruel act of reverse psychology for The Powers That Be to tell gays they can't serve in the military or get married."
I mean seriously, there are about a thousand and a half things I would far rather have the right to do than join the military or get married. I far prefer the idea of boycotting these institutions. but you know, it isn't up to me, now is it, Mr. Smarty Pants.
Did I mention I got up on a stage with confidence with my trapper keeper in me cunt. Yes, it's lady time. You have that to look forward to. Goodnight with the music of the day/ night/ morning. STFU narrator.
Oops, while I was feelin' around YourBoob, I found this awesome band:
You'll have more of me than you ever could have hoped for after tomorrow or the day after that or the day after that, especially since working 19 days stright sees me eating like crap with virtually no exercise. I've somewhat goodly, somewhat not goodly been falling asleep super early, so even the last of my teaching prep is going to happen at 5AM in the morning. I can't blog. Nope. Can't. I am hoping to hit whelmed right about this time tomorrow and slide into some days off later in the week.
For now, here is a suitable replacement for me. Did I mention my apartment looks like shit. Of course, there's the laundry. Don't forget the laundry. 5Am is early enough to wash and dry a couple loads before I have to change my adult diaper and drink my metamucil.
Stay classy. That's what I always don't say. Plus, I better push go over here. I've got half a post dying for naught in my saved posts last week. When will I learn beggars can't be choosers? Oh yeah, never.
I think this one might be my favorite, but really, it's impossible to choose...
Go see the rest of the 237486 of these. They are brilliant!
I picked this picture while I was watching the movie Seven last evening for the first time... to my great psychological detriment, I'm sure. I actually fell asleep about halfway through; the remainder just situated itself into my psyche, I imagine— like all those infomercials and episodes of Growing Pains. Shudder.
I fell asleep sometime before 9PM like I might normally do at midnight when I've stayed up later than I should, but I needed some down time after the kids went to sleep, so Fuck It™. You see, I went back off the coffee sauce on Monday and there is this deluge of sleep catch up I am dealing with, it seems. So, all week, I've slept quite well and much, but I am still kinda tired. Last night I woke up, like a normal person might at 4:30AM with a blessed hour and a half still to sleep, but it was only midnight, so I went back to the other half of my sleep. This is a very sexy lifestyle. Time to shift to having dreams about sex instead of having actual sex? I hope not, but my 12 day in a row marathon work schedule just turned into 19, which might make this work/ sleep thing a way of life, I think. Shudder.
So, there's my weekend security guard fluffing, my part time teaching job and the one that seems realest of them all, the substitute teaching which I theoretically do on Thursdays and Fridays, but usually blow off because I need the days off. This past week and now next, I agreed to sub for teachers I know at my children's school. This post isn't about lust at all, I'm afraid.
Wait, there was super juiciness to report last weekend when I was way too busy to blog. Sleep deprived was the old sexy, I guess, and Monday found me feeling unwell and hence the circular coffee sauce offageness. A young gent (I'll call him being three years my junior) and I have seen each other a scant number of times, but there is a very nice rapport that turned extra spicy last weekend. The thing is, I felt quite swooped up. I don't know that he doesn't feel the same way, but as a busy week for us both went on, I found feeling so intensely about such matters to be nearly painful. Pre-occupying, at least. Pesky lust. Oh goody, the pic does work. I'm not sure I want to embrace such suchnesses (though of course, I do). And, worsely, I feared he may not want to, so displaying them might not be apropos. He did reply and even thank me (?, but sweet) for sending a couple flirty texts early in the week, but then I went into teenage boy mode and decided that it was his turn to initiate, and... crickets. sheez.
While, yes, on the one hand, I'm not interested in scenarios in which I do all the initiating (and, duh, he initiated 3 out of 4 of our previous "dates" (sic), but who's counting), I guess the thing to do is just say how I feel. It's been a comfort to me to give myself a channel for lustful thoughts by allowing myself to aim my lust arrows in other (oh so productive up in the sky) directions when I feel maybe my needs aren't being met in a certain sense by one blah blah... at least in theory. But, then I think that's probably what he's doing, and oh my gosh, got vague and estupido. Will. Send. An. Email.
Just a sec. Gotta make the donut round. (Also, trying to get this out, before I really buckle down here at my other job and get to work on some teaching stuff I'm in a crunch re:.) Alright, then.
This week in review part: So, I'm subbing Thursday for a class with 7 special needs students, and I get to my car with three of my own children in tow, ready for school, and my tire is flat. Almost completely. I decide I can drive it to the gas station a block from my apartment in hopes of airing it up, but of course, the seal has been broken and it cannot be aired, plus I just ruined the tire, I bet. This is thirty minutes before the morning assembly starts. Mr. Bee is Gracious enough to come from his 5-10 minute away place and give us a ride to school (fortunately, I was subbing at my sons' school) and drop The Future President off at her dad's close by from where she was already planning to take a bus, since this was all a little early for her high school's starting later deal.
He's gracious enough to come, but not gracious enough not to not act very put upon. The store agreed to let me keep my van there for the day and Mr. Bee picked me and the (his too) boys up from school (on his usual pick up day), and because I didn't really want to be asking someone who seemed he would be pouting about helping the whole time to help, I dropped him and the boys off and borrowed his car for the couple hours it took to go buy a small hydraulic jack (finally— my shitty van one bent and collapsed earlier in the summer). I easily got the tire off, and took it to my favorite east side tire store, took it back, smashed my hand a little (kiss it) and got the tire back on. I'm dirty and tired, but in good spirits considering and easily let Mr. Bee know I didn't want to quibble about his quibblings. "Thank you so much for your help," is all I said. I'll see you on your free tutoring on Sunday evening this week, you grumble grumble. I'm just happy, I suppose, to receive these little confirmations about my decision to leave and my own inner dykinesses. I don't need no stinkin' man. A car, maybe, but... oh well. Even drama doesn't have to be drama, you know. I had a school potluck after that, and got pulled over by a cop and got a warning (never happens). It was a very mixed up, but not awful day, Amelia Bedelia.
The good thing about subbing is that you just show up and you don't have to take it home. The class I was with Thursday and Friday was fun. They were a wild pack, but they were fun. Some of the lesson plans/ assignments the teacher left weren't all there, it seemed, and we did our best and sometimes the children seemed like they were actually learning, so in the afternoon when much of the class is gone out to reading and other support, five children remained in the class. I had quietly played Tchaikovsky on Thursday while the children read or worked on these stories they were writing, and Friday's Enya prompted a beautiful and serene dancing time that really moved me.
Each morning at the school where I am teaching we do Yoga and sing songs at an opening circle. There, it was a rare thing to be afforded that space, and yet, if I had to choose, I might say I liked being in that subbing classroom more than I am liking my job. Maybe it would be the fulltimeness of it, the not feeling like I just got started and then, wham it's over, too soon (with our shortened academic week), or maybe the better theoretical pay. Or maybe, I don't walk away feeling like I should have done more instead of that we did so much, even if it's not all I'd hoped it would be. I think I just feel more needed, fulfilled, in the public school setting, even though I am getting some positive feedback from some of the parents re: my own students.
Something similar happened when I moved back to Arkansas for a time after having lived in Austin for five years. I went back and was the weird one. The one doing things differently, but in contrast, in Austin, as in my current school, I feel like I come off as the conservative one. Shudder.
Well, I'm getting catnappy, and I have thirty thousand things to do here at work. Grade papers, prepare for student /teacher/ parent/ administrator conferences on Tuesday. Plus, I've got movies to watch, people. There are movies to watch, plus let's have a song.
Oh, I've been listening to The Flaming Lips' remake of Dark Side of the Moon a lot lately. It is stunning. Plus, as blogging fortune would have it: Wayne Coyne= Lust. Trust me, I'm a "mathematician."
I'm having a hard time expressing myself here. I've got the perfect image. I cleaned things up and got all dolled up, but what now? Not what you think. Surely, not that. What are you thinking? It's these balls and these chains; they're bringing me down, right? Pony up. Man up. Fro up. I've got the shades and the tat and all that. Is it my physique? Who ever uses the word physique? I wish Olivia Newton John were here. She'd know what to do. She always does.
Non sequiturs aside, this is where something more pithy belongs. Something sexy, something revealing, complaining about this, that, or the other thing. It's all implied, but where does that leave me? Where do I fit in? (We are disregarding the picture at this point.) This blog has gotten to a self-sustainable mode. I've stolen enough peculiar pics from about town that people's photo searches land them here. No need to write this smut. It writes itself... if 25 views a day is your goal, and that's about as ambitious as I should be here, you know.
I've been woefully scant on the details lately, I know, and since it's my shtick, I'd best get back on the proverbial ball. I've got a quaint date tonight. It's with a fellow I've seen a few times, and I must say I'm fond of him. It's hot and not exclusive. Kinda gentle friends, plus bring condoms. Also, kissed and got felt up by a married poly friend and I liked it (a lot). Note to self: stock up on Cherry Chapstick™. Haven't made out with any ladiez, though I have had it suggested by two men that I bring along a female friend. Awkwardly, I don't have any female friends scheming to go fuck guys together though. Is that some stereotype I missed the memo on? Please, send me this memo. I'd hate to have my bi card revoked.
This is my first of 12 straight and/ or gay days of working. I'm virtually training the new cleaning person today, and funnily enough, he came to me to tell me he was going to take a break. Do you think saying, "Do what you need to do. I'm not your boss," is rude? I meant it to be more empowering than anything. I just happen to know what he needs to do and where all the shit is. Maybe I could have gotten him to go on a popcorn and Kombucha run for me, though, if I were more ambitious. Gaze into my pony's eyes.
Well, this post is right on parly neither political, sexy, literary, nor poetic. What kind of blogger am I? Where do I fit in? I'm going to have to get (back) on the ball if I'm going to read something not recycled or pertaining to Martha Stewart at the October Bedpost Confessions public display of smuttiness.
P.S. I'm pretty sure Mims is gonna get all hot and bothered by this whole Christine O'Donnell masturbatory issue,especially after she ponders her unrequited lust for Sarah Palin..
Hi. My name pseudo-name's Freida and I'm a Kombucha addict. Just when I was feeling smug about quitting smoking American Spirit cigarettes (7 years ago) before they skyrocketed to $7.00 a pack or some such outlandishness, I go and pick up this $3.59 a pop (if you're lucky) fermented vinegar sludge habit. Just sayin'.
And, as if that's not all suckin' up to The Man™ enough, I'm gonna be live bloggin the watching of House, apparently. So happens House and Cuddy are doing it or some such suchness. Is it a rerun? I don't know. Or care too much, but now Mr. Bee is coming over in an hour to use my computer and to get a little of this here math stuff he needs now that he's returning to school himself. Wednesdays for an hour I've been cool with. Enjoyed it even, but tonight I feel imposed upon. My apartment is a mess, and House as a ploy to get me to fold the clothes is failing if I blog instead. Hurry hurry.
I've been putting myself out there. You know "there" more lately, and here and there have these retreat-ish urges. I don't have to be too paranoid about the getting fired from teaching for being raunchy (outside of school/ student realms) so much with the teaching job I got, but still the promise to read at a scintillating public event has got me freaking. They want a bio. Freida? My own pseudo pseudo name? Reading my smut in person? All my smut turned to shit in the meantime and now I have to write new stuff. Last time people's stuff was salacious as advertised, but my own erotica reads like bad porn unless it's liquored up with campy humor, and that wasn't what others' seemed to be about so much, at least not as esoterically as I tend to take it... except the super bad bad stuff that's only so bad it's good along the lines of Eric Estrada, and that seems even more daunting to read. I'd prefer to be looked at askance and not gotten than to be looked at askance with crickets and pity.
Been putting myself out there on social fronts, too. Learning the ebb and flow of fun and sex and privacy and gettin' shit done. Kinda. My load is not tremendous. In fact, if one were sneaking a peek, he and or she might even be suspecting things are all fair and balanced, but we know better than to believe that hype. But, being suspicious of it doesn't help either, so I'm goin' with it until I quit, Sarah Palin-style. Do the next right thing. Livin' the dream. Doin' the deed. No one person is everything to me, nor do I have the hope that someone is as much (except maybe my own cheeseball self). You know, being vague here is probably not doing what I was going for, saving time by avoiding giving back ground info. Maybe soon.
Well, these clothes are folding themselves and it's starting to freak me out. Damn, Kombucha. It looks like Cuddy and House are screwing. Oh, there's a vying to have a House re-union tour in Europe, like when the Brady's used to go to the Grand Canyon. Stolen moments. Waaiiittt a minute. "It isn't going to work.??"
Hurry, it's a commercial. The most profound thing I heard at the sex talk group last night-- the book study-- was that a slut is a woman who gives what's usually leverageable by women away for a free or reduced price, because it lowers value of sex or whatever as a commodity for other women. What? No dinner and movie are required to get a blow job. What? Not saying whether I am or am not a slut. I think we all know the conflicting data there. But, the idea. That's profound.
House just said, "I love you." 13's AWOL and these clothes aren't going to fold themselves after all. They're holding out for some sweet talkin' after they read that slut smut. This post can be brought to you nothing less commercial than a commercial.
Ha. Does this remind anyone of Whole Grain Cookie Crisps?
My record of late? Posting two days in a row. The record for longest* (and awesomest) Rube Goldberg Device ever? Right here:
*I don't have any evidence that this is the longest Rube Golberg device in the world, but it is the longest Rube Goldberg device video I've posted to my blog and this is my blog and I deem it the longest ever in the world, dammnit. I said, "Don't question my authoritah!" (I just leaned how to spell authoritah by looking it up yesterday, so you can expect to see it often.) Just watch it. You're welcome.
As you might expect, with one foot in the blogging door and one foot out, I am straddling the abyss between over-exposure and under-exposure most gracefully... even when I'm not. This is what good Cat Ladiez™ like myself do to protect the masses and survive when Facebook doesn't quite cut it. Yes, I wanted to post my recent jubilation over being the proud new owner of my very own Diva Cup, but figured when werd of my vaginal investment spread to my baby Bees, they wouldn't not be able to not use it against me next time we ran out of cereal. I can hear it already, "If you wouldn't have been so selfish and spent $30 on that stupid cat toy, we would be eating Cinnamon Life after we brushed our teeth tonight. IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT. EVERYTHING." That's why I blog, you know.
I've missed you. I know I say that then I go away and you forget about me and then I come all up in here and show my fetching kitty again, and here we go all over again. Let's just get used to it, k? I know you are, but what am I?
Besides storing a Trapper Keeper in me cunt™, I've been working it long and hardly. Kinda. I've theoretically substituted far more than I've actually substituted. I've been teaching easy smart hippy kids the maths and still rockin' this here security guard garb to the max. It's blue. It's polyester. It's fabulous. Respect my authoritah! I am starting my first book club tomorrow night. It's Oprah's super secret book club. I'm pretty sure Dan Savage is gonna be there. (I hope someone remembered to invite him. Uh.) We're gonna be discussing the book Sex at Dawn. Sitting around talking about the sex. What am I gonna need this blog for?
Can I tell you something? I'm having a middle of the road hair day. I'm in a not very serious funk that I think is rather akin to being at work for 12 hours on a Saturday. Probably because I am at work for 12 hours on a Saturday. I have .5 thousand things to do and only these remaining 2 and tomorrow's 12 hours to do them in. Got that? Oh, the crunch. I am feeling more poignantly wordsy than wordy, rather poetic, but not very ambitious. I began a post earlier:
Dear Diarous Ether-like Substance,
Do you think I'm neurotic? Just checkin'. I glibly referred to myself as such, and now realize all places are not here. Here, it's my schtick. While I may be the only one who is a pretty frequent black wearer at my hippy school job, my niche as resident punk rock banana smasher allower is being carved out nicely. "You must relate such an act to mathematics," was my pre-requisite. While I did squash most of the punk rockness out if it in the end, there are two young lasses who were able to state that when one changes the shape of a banana, one does not change the amount of space it occupies (ie, its volume). Squish. It's rough. It's loose. Like me. But, no one was going to eat the banana and I started it in the first place by referring to smashing it when I talked about the challenge of representing a three-dimensional object on a two-dimensional piece of paper.
There was more that I started to write in that post, but it just doesn't convey my stuffness anymore. Bad hair is a self-fulfilling prophecy, it seems. Before that I wrote:
In other lonerly news, I finally finished A Single Man yesterday and watched Aldomovar's Bad Education . Gael Garcia Bernal and Aldomovar are a two great tastes that taste great together combo, fo shizzel.
I also googled the shit out of Venn Diagrams (here's one), and for me to have really pulled an Aldomovar, I would need to actually make a venn diagram to keep track of posts within posts within posts. Maybe I can pull it off in a Friday Flash Fiction sometime. As things now stand, there are are extraneous noises here at my work: weed eaters, the barfing man desisted and now scores of games I care not about are randomly announced. Statistically speaking, I'm too sexy for everything but this blog, and pickles. I'm not too sexy for pickles, which is most fortunate... for obvious reasons.
I guess I'l go through the word mojo process to craft a poem which will make even Sylvia Plath throw herself before a weedeater. Not trying to be funny. That's not funny. Over here at Freida Bee Inc ™ we don't mock the dead. Only the undead. Ok, we might make fun of the undead, but we would never make fun of poetry. This paragraph needs just one or two more lines so that the graphs don't touch. If the I'm too Sexy and Undead touch, there's hell to pay. Remember that one time...? I brought the marshmallows, so I take full responsibility.
Gonna hang out with a friend tonight, and I think meet someone new tomorrow night. Sweet. My friend and I might go to a gay bar tonight. If we do what I want that is. I've been alone long enough now to be really seeing my own personal biological cycles very clearly and Mistress Bee is feeling in her body right fine these days. Just don't tell her I said that.
I must go inspect the facility. Wait a sec, will ya?
ok, the perimeter has been secured and calculated.
Let's see what shit I've written so far.
Aw fuck. If this is gonna go out before I leave work, it will not have the intended poem. Plus, I didn't edit it even once. Well, I'll be open for spankings in the morrow, so get your hands readied. PS. I am attending a raunchy readin' next week and I am thinking wiritng more love letters to French Aurthurian Men I don't know are in order. Yes. I wasn't sure what my schtick would be. There you go.
I'm naming this post in advance, so there is a high standard to live up to, but I am off to a nice start with the find of this pic. Seriously. Seriously. But, no pressure. I'm crazy tired here at work, but at least the intertubes came back to me like the whore she wishes she were and here we are back together again, me in my kinky duds, her in her birthday suit on a Sunday morning coming down. What should we do, Johnny Cash?
Does this chick have a pacifier? Oh hells, yes. And, she's molesting Alice. Most fucked up post ever. How? How? Please, Jesus, how can I make this fucked up? Shit, I wish I had my bible, and I don't mean my Real Analysis book. A Martha Stewart Living, at least. An O magazine (hints at having orgasms, but shhh) could work, if you get off on Dr, Phil. Who doesn't? WAIT A MINUTE! Dr. Phil, Martha Stewart, and Oprah having a three-way is about as fucked up as it gets (if you throw in Mel Gipson), so... Dr. Phil, Martha Stewart, and Oprah having a three-way it is!
Dr. Phil, Martha Stewart, and Oprah Having a Three-Way
"My tuna roll is ready, guys," Martha quipped as she walked toward her dinner guests. "Sergio, dinner will be served at 8:42. We'll be out on the patio enjoying this luscious evening when you have the table ready." As Martha gently took Oprah's hand to guide her to her pride and joy, her marvelously decorated screened-in patio overlooking her vineyard™, she could sense Oprah's tension. "She carries her tension in her hands," Martha noticed again. Not sure if it was her tuna roll again or Phil's presence, Martha decided to move forward with the plan, as usual.
Phil was in surprising form this night. His head was shined, and his mustache trimmed, sure, but there was something else. Something more ephemeral in his demeanor that made him more appealing than usual. This pleased Martha, and pleasing Martha was feeding into Phil's positivity, creating one of those positive feedback loops he's always talking about. All were impressed, and the only thing that could have made the evening more perfect would be for Wayne Dyer to see it (little did the three know Sergio had arranged this very thing via the video camera set up in Martha's three-way room).
With Phil on one side and Martha on the other, Oprah sipped her wine, white of course to go with Martha's famous tuna roll. Though Oprah had made her quest for orgasm very public, diminishing the shame for all women in seeking pleasure in their vajayjays, it was not until she and Martha finally hooked up that her own desire had been fulfilled. This didn't surprise Oprah. Everyone knew Martha was not only a woman with power and prestige, but one with time on the inside (the literal inside) and that's what it takes these days to know what women want. Mel Gipson had tried, and we all expected much of that episode. After all, he is the epitome of What Women Want, according to his movie's trailer, but he just didn't know what Martha knew and Martha knew he knew he didn't know, and this made her glow on this lovely evening.
Don't get me wrong, Phil's presence was not extraneous. His potency could be felt for miles around as he kissed Oprah's neck and gently squeezed her bootilicious buttocks. Sergio, again with his exceptional timing, entered the scene to prolong the savory anticipation of the stars. It is his gift. With Martha's tuna roll consumed, the three took their respective leaves to change into their silky robes. Oprah could feel a slight buzz coming on and a flush fill her loins. She pushed thoughts of her show on alcoholism out of her mind as she poured herself a stout one. If she were going to take on Phil's stout one again, she was going to need it, even with Martha's help.
Phil, oblivious to the pristine decor of Martha's three-way room, wrote a chapter of his next book in his mind as he waited for his fellow moguls to arrive. Martha's three-way room was amazing. He had seen it once before, when Martha was fulfilling her MWM fantasy with him and Mel. He saw she had repaired the window Mel had shattered after their cocks had accidentally touched during double penetration. Phil knew he was no fag, but he still flinched as he glanced at the shiny glass. He closed the curtains and waited, wondering if it was more polite to already have a hard-on when the women arrived or to let Martha take responsibility for his swollen member. "Why didn't I read her magazine?" He figured such etiquette was probably in there. He wasn't sure what women wrote about, but assumed they covered all the minute details like these men don't have time to explore.
Martha and Oprah entered the room together, hand in hand with their usual get-to-work attitudes. Phil, as usual, was both impressed and threatened by their expeditiousness. Martha made it easy for him by putting a ball gag in his mouth. No goofy gaffes to worry about relaxed the room considerably as Martha clapped on her sound sytem. The Folsom Prison album. Her favorite. Incidentally, everytime she whacked Phils' ass that night, the volume of the music would oscillate; this only emphasized his lack of power, an aphrodesiac to the power pair, indeed.
Martha sucked and suckled Oprah while Phil watched. He became hard without anyone ever touching him, including himself. He knew better than to anger Martha that way and her pleasure was obvious. She was extra gentle with his ass as he fucked Oprah's sweet and sweaty vajayjay, getting her ready for Martha's sweet lovin'.
I'm sure there's no need for me to recount the ensuing events. Phils' crying jag and Mel's wistful glances through the bay window only intensified Oprah's pleasure that evening.
And, to top it all off Martha's creamy dessert souffle was to die for. Sergio made sure of that.
My most fucked up post ever? Probably not, but maybe. We'll let Wayne Dyer be the judge of that.
That's why I only have a minute to write this. I miss you, blog. I didn't until an hour ago, but then it came on something fierce. I felt like crying. Not sure why, and I figured you'd tell me. Discouraged? Overwhelmed? I got a teaching job! In fact, I got my ideal teaching job, which is not the kind of teaching job I was applying for all summer, but got via email of a friend to a friend, then a demo (no pressure) teach that actually went very well. If you don't know this about me, I am a goddess of teh Socratic Method, apparently, and I only learned those fancy words to call it a week ago on our teacher retreat replete with kayaking breaks. I had never kayaked before. And, I especially had never spotted a water snake in the water near me while I was in a kayak. I feel so much wiser.
So, school starts Monday. My new job is part time and so I shall continue butchin' it up on the weekends in this here play security guard suit, and then there is the subbing. On Thursdays and Fridays I shall be subbing, probably exclusively at my children's school as I am on the preferred sub list. It's not quite a gold credit card, but they pretty much give those to any old schmoe. This is even better. I subbed on Friday and even got to eat the watermelon I planted in the 4th grade garden with a 4th grader while I was subbing for 4th grade. It was orange and it were good.
Well, I am only still here at work because I had a brain tweak and was thinking waking up at 5:55 to be at work by 6 was sufficient and it was not, so I am staying an hour late in trade with my co-worker. We can do that over here, you know. I have a million an 2 things to do to be ready for Monday. 2-7th grade math will be my gig and the school is essentially a homeschool environment, but I want to make it dangerously rigorous. These kids are fgonna freak your 4th grade algebra shit out. That, and we're gonna have ourselves one badass bake sale. Mainly, I am going to learn and the amount I was paying UT to go teach kids for free last year will be paid to me instead. It's not too much, but, you know, it's just what fruity pie in the sky Jesus says its sposeta be, and there ain't no one, not even Mel Gipson who's gonna question that shit, yo.
There certainly was not enough sex contained herein. Please leave sexual comments. Erotic hot and heavy comments that will remind me of the juicy fruitness of life. There it is. That's why I feel like crying. I want to have sex. Crying is a sublime way to make that happen, you know. The lads and lasses fall for that shit every time you are curled up on your bed wallowing in it. Also, I stopped walking when my Baby Bees returned to school. I would have to awake at some 5:30 shit to make it before I get them to school and then get myself to school and walkign in the morning is what my neighbor preferred and I'm up til midnight getting all the shit done these days. How does Martha Stewart do it all?
Tomight I've got to get something done while I finsih watching A Single Man, which I fell asleep watching with The Future President last night. She and I had a rockin' time. We went to a thrift store and got chinese food and watched a movie. It was awesome, but besides my algebra tutoring date tomorrow night with Mr. Bee. Surprisingly, we haven't shagged once since I moved out. I figured we'd revert back to that since we did so often when we lived together, but every time I've had the thought, I recalled that we separated for 6 months before and sex is how we got back together. It's not a struggle or anything. It's just that athere's an evil easiness to it that makes him seem apporachable when no one else in my life is that to me right now. I'm bordering on being in a pathetic place right now, but I'm pretty sure it has more to do with my being unproductive today then anything else. It's. Ok. To. Take. A. Day. Off. (even if it's a day when I'm at work).
I feel like we just teased each other and are now saying good bye. Kissed and have our boners, and now it's time to go. I hate being a teenager. It means there is an unwritten poem that I am too lazy to write. Suck it. Please. Seriously though, I have to let someone else come in here and make donuts now. A poem tomorrow. I pinky promise.
This post will not be Texas-sized... unless it is. This post is from my phone. This post if from my work. Hulk not happy when internet not work at work. Work work work.
Dr. Miss Teacher Bee is the final candidate for a position at the best school ever, so if you could send mashed potatoes her way, she says she'll quit referring to herself in the third person. mmkay.
Work it. Third paragraph just like the first. First word last. Last word first. Like this.
That was some cheerleader who stole my phone when I stole her crouton. Don't worry. We already fisted and made up. Speaking of the unspeakable, I finally got my hands on an Ethical Slut and am feeling right at home with the read. There is a certain blog girlfriend I am gonna insist read it too if I have to throw a naked fit to make it so (sorry I couldn't link now dear, not with a mouth full of pom poms).
£ Sorry 'bout that and that lire symbol. That's what happens when you blog from a(n) ouiji board.
A perm would be easier here, but let's make that a poem.
A perm left to chance
The one a phone might set
If it were allowed to auto spiel
To its lithium heart's content.
You news me like I needs you.
Let me low you with god vibrations
And chesty tunes
Against the wall in the mall.
Random words left to chance
Whispered low in your ear
Musculature just right
Va va boom gloom on a broom.
If bombardier be your bag
I wouldn't have the slightest
As to what kink I might be
Signing up to perform,
But paroxysm I will.
Only wait for new so long as
Some man in suites dictate
Combination robot Data saying,
"I am fully functional"/
"Have it tor way."
If I could merely make crack a larkin
Strawberries and biscuits,
You know we'd be livers
Forever and a dart.
You know i smart.
Only Hulk no blog good.
And hist to show I can go on and on
And on on on, thumb one more
For good meadow, but who keeps track?
Wander, wool into a tight ball.
PUT ME IN YOUR CUNT.
Whoa robot, you've created a duet.
I cobalt keep this up
For when someone better comes along,
I shall oas you off or wise yet,
Keep you in a drawer.
Nothing knife. Nothing original.
We merely spend this now gripping
Beijing grilling frigging each other
Til we both are no moire.
In our mutual fate well sew
How we squandered out moments texting
When we might have bern torching
If only you ee half the real boy
I wish we werewolf.
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