2/19/11

A Much Better Title Than My Last

Let's Nike this shit, yo. I will not meta-blog.  I will not meta-blog. Don't expect a poem, though.  Shut up person talking about the rolling national debt at 7:42 AM.  Why?  I'm already discouraged.  I need to work on looking look like I already feel adequately impotent.  If they find out I can still get hard from complaining, I'm a goner and I'm a little tired for a political uprising this morning.

As exciting as it was to learn how to crack open one walnut on another just now, my sore palm says to save it for better pursuits.  Speaking of which, I need some space, people.  Speaking of which, I need some space people.  (They seem like they could be useful right now.)

Since I know you think you'd like to want to look at my ass, I've been honing it into a well-oiled machine.  Uh.  I'm halfway through the fifth week of my "10K training" and although I registered for the fun-run part of an actual 10K, if anyone I know thinks he and/or she is gonna come watch me pant whilst out of breath with bouncing boobs, think again.  Don't worry, I eliminated the most recent not-good-enough-sports-bra-of-the-week that I wasted a whole $9.99 on and now know I need to jog around the Academy Sports and Outdoors™ to test that shit.  My mini-van key and left boob almost fell out of my bra last night and if I get stranded out in the dark at the lake because my key gets lost, I'll be living on squirrels and free water in one of those gazebos and being way too happy about it before you can ask, "Did she just steal my donut?"  There are cold showers and they're sounding good about now, except not really.  They still sound unpleasant.  I can now officially run for three minutes in a row, walking only one minute between and do ten cycles of that shit.  Don't tell Betty Crocker I did four minutes just to see how it'd go last night.  If she finds out I strayed from the recipe, everybody knows what happens then.  If you don't, I'll give you a hint:  It doesn't rhyme with Apple Betty.

In unrelated news, I've noticed I'm vague, I mumble and do something else thirdly.  People have asked me to clarify things often lately.  Am I being vaguer than usual or has everyone else in my life suddenly become more nosy.  Though I suspect the latter, I know I am comfortable enough mumble mumbling my way through things and just talking to myself.  It's easy enough to see why I do it in my home.  I don't think I should have to say, "Throw your trash in the trash can," for the sixth time and, apparently, 17 year-old girls who suddenly live in my house again don't think I should either, but I can't seem to get ok with its being there, so I keep mumbling it to no one at all, seemingly.  Is finding the wrapping from yet another band-aid on the floor really probable cause for phone restriction?  But, it's my only leverage.  I think, over the years, I've just developed the bad habit of assuming people won't respond when I state my preferences.  Right?    

This past week wasn't my favorite one in the history of the earth, though there were moments.  Moments when I met moments.  To have several of those in one week was nice.  Most recently, being the only one running over the Mopac bridge as I heightenedly perceived the wind on my skin last night was surreal enough to inspire awe.  There was a birthday that was mine and it was nice and quaint, but all the people I know who live in my meat (ha) world didn't a.) read my mind or b.) read my tweets they don't know exist, so no one gave me 41 spankings.

Yesterday involved the awesomest pan ever of little red homefries with carrots, bell peppers, onions, garlic, a non-descript other pepper I was saving until November, all of which I prepared with one of my dearest old friends who is visiting from out of town right now.  There was other stuff this week, but I'm pretty sure you don't want to hear about the way I was stood up for the first session of my new tutoring gig of an actual college student and how I still got paid to sit there listening to Pandora reminiscing on my own time spent in another of that community college's learning labs thinking I would never get through Chemistry or Calculus II or Engineering Physics or American History I or another day in my marriage.  I'm pretty sure Olivia Newton John would manage something pithy and perky now, but she's busy giving me a blow job and I'm almost whole, complete, fulfilled, sated.  Don't make me get a thesaurus, 'cause you know I will.  Is that a risk you are willing, wishing, contemplating, considering, etc. to take?

Have I said I'm crazy tired?  The perfect trifecta for an anxiety attack is brewing: lack of sleep, over-caffeination, and lack of sleep.  Last night I enjoyed being reassured that people are all into fat bottom girls, but the glaring lack of songs rejoicing the virtues of ample bellies with stretchmarks has me wondering today if I will ever be loved the way I want.  Let's not mention I haven't the foggiest notion of how that might be.  How about however someone who loves me chooses to?  There it is, the emotional cookie crumble that this writing serves.  I worship the emotional cookie crumble of my choosing as a path to freedom and you can too.

Did I mention my haircut is one inch too dykey on me for my tastes?  Is it sexist of me to think manly is good, but dykey isn't?  If I start wearing a vest, workbooks, and Wrangler pull-away jeans with my flannel shirts, will you commence with the daily moisturizer check plan, even if I balk?  Though, I hereby and forthwithily consent to your using restraints, if necessary, to hold up you end of the, er, agreement.  The safeword is "fuck me."  You're following along and taking notes, right?

I was sad to learn that in my not giving a fuck, I am going to be missing the International Air Sex Championship next Saturday.  Mr. Bee traded his having the boys that night with another.  I'll have to schedule some Inappropriate Charades another time in honor of the event.

I wish the guy who is on break in front of me wouldn't shift his chair so he is only facing me like we're going to talk every time he takes a break while I'm "working."  Sometimes I'm a bitch, and sometimes I'm too nice.  If only Sandra Bullock were here, she could tell me when it's appropriate to be tough and when it's appropriate to be soft and pretty, so I can win the Beauty Pageant.  Since she's not, I'll have to rely on Terp2it  to tell me what's appropriate.  I'm not gonna link, 'cause then he might come here and intimidate me with his beard.  Use the google, but here is a video of one of the talented folks I saw perform last night. I love Austin.





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6 comments:

Randal Graves said...

Jeez, I come here for the poems & all I get is bouncing boobie imagery. Wait, that's much better than versery.

Shit, hang on, some fucker wants to fax.

*Alex Trebrek singing*

No paper, so I just wrote the safe word on my hand, of course now I can't do anything until I get some paper. You suck.

The next time you're out saving the Greeks from the Persians, see if you can come up with a logistically possible way to combine air sex & air guitar. It's gonna be big.

Someone once bought an Olivia Newton John LP from the Perpetual Book(s & More) Sale Machine.

Comrade Kevin said...

I can understand why you wouldn't want to conform to a lesbian stereotype but would still feel a desire to embrace the masculine. You're actually not alone in that sentiment. Not at all.

I'm not sure if you identify as such, but genderqueer seems to fit you well, unlike "dykey" clothing.

Bill Hawthorne said...

Frieda,


My name is Bill Hawthorne and I am a political blogger. Just had a question about your blog and couldn’t find an email—please get back to me as soon as you can (barbaraobrien(at)maacenter.org)

Thanks,
Bill

Sandy Underpants said...

good on you for the running, very impressive

Maggie May said...

lack of sleep and caffeine completely equal anxiety

which explains me

Cormac Brown said...

"My mini-van key and left boob almost fell out of my bra last night and if I get stranded out in the dark at the lake because my key gets lost, I'll be living on squirrels and free water in one of those gazebos and being way too happy about it before you can ask, 'Did she just steal my donut?'"

Some days, you just own Blogger, and you are that much of a blogging Goddess.