Finally, a little light!

I would just like to point out that the intelligent, sexy, fabulous blogs of The Girl with a One-Track Mind and Mon Mouth frequently make my day.

Make my day a lot sexier, to be specific.

I am grateful for their existence. Anyone else looking in here? Go check them out.




I have another habit (aside from blog-reading) that makes my day take on a pleasant, naughty glow. It probably comes out of reading too much erotic fan-fiction, to be frank (or else my fixation on said fiction is a symptom of this predilection--chicken and the egg much?), but in any case...

I take a lot of joy from perverting the everyday scenes around me. The smut goggles are always on, so to speak. People I see/hear/meet frequently wind up engaged in strange trysts, with one another (or with me, or with My Man, or with some combination thereof) in the privacy of my own little mind. Haunting the hubby's work functions feeds me material for the erotica I write, and certainly keeps me interested in the topic at hand, whatever it is. (People are always so flattered or baffled that someone from outside could take such an interest, even in the bureaucracy. If they only knew, eh? I wonder if some of them do?)

Even my own job provides me with these opportunities. I'm a secretary, for god's sake--a masochistic secretary who gets off on being told what to do, on following very simple, direct instructions.

Imagine the opportunities, won't you?

Every little "Input this into _____, thanks" or "Please copy this and send it back" that winds up in my inbox can get me squirming, on the right day, hot and eager to comply. It wouldn't work, I suppose, if my if I didn't find some of my coworkers very sexy (unless they were completely anonymous, I suppose), or probably even if there was any remote possibility anything would happen (which, I assure you, there is Not), but while it's a delightful impossibility, I remain delighted.

And it sure makes menial tasks a lot more fun. Continue reading...

Can I really profess anonymously? Maybe I'm just bitching, then.

I am feeling deeply depressed.

I'm getting sick of hearing from each of two girlfriends about how the other is an unreasonable source of "drama." They're BOTH unreasonable sources of drama, goddamnit, and it makes me batshit. I, however, don't turn it into terrible feuds and then come bitching to me about the feud. What do they expect me to say? They try to bait me, by telling me what the other is doing. They try to get sympathy and information, and while I do try to be generically sympathetic, I'm not going to comdemn either of them to the other. Fuck it. If A wouldn't want me to condemn her for B, why should I condemn B to her?

Batshit. Batshit, batshit, batshit.

I feel like my day's been spoiled. I've been looming in a general depression for a while, now, and I was on an upsweep, but it feels so very unstable. An enormous phone conversation that felt like tense negotiation later, and I'm ready to lie down on the floor and not get up for a while.

I'm trying to avoid that course of action.

It's sunny out. It's breezy. It's the first time it's been reasonable enough to go outside at noon, but there are machines going through, everywhere I look, and I can't hardly go lie down in their path.

I want them to go. I don't want to hear from these chicks, no matter how much I may love them. I want my lover home, I want to lie down in the sunshine, I want to eat strawberries and play some music and enjoy myself. I'd love to have the energy to get a little work done, but motivation lacks. I'd even like to do a little laundry. Something.

Maybe I can manage to start laundry. It's a good start. It's useful. I'll feel more productive. I couldn't even finish my yoga, this morning, and that was before the phone rang. Now everything looks bigger and messier and less approachable than it did before. Than it is, I'm sure.

GAAAAAAH.

Huff.

Okay, okay.

Stop that tape, it's done. Start another one. Start the laundry. Put on some music. Maybe finish mixing that CD I've been meaning to get together. Do a little work with the music on. Chill the fuck out. Without, you know, clonking the fuck out.

Maybe it'll work, right? Continue reading...