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Tuesday, Oct. 07, 2003 / 1:40 p.m. ~My Early Days as a Prostitute, and Bad Spelling, and Blisters and Gums, and Finally Questions~ I got so distracted trying to add the 'font' tool to my toolbar here that I forgot why I opened this new page in Word. I think I had something to say, but what? It doesn't seem possible to add 'font' to the toolbar, by the way. But I've customized the hell of out said toolbar, so I'm straight. Good to go. All ready, yeppers, yessirree. Dammit, I've yet to receive my spectacular purple flannel kitty pajama pants from the Ebayer. Has she sent them? Am I too impatient? And why must it rain just when I've purchased new shoes? I feel I must wait until a dry day to wear them. But then again, it's not quite raining, not quite yet, it's merely threatening. I'm prepared, with shoes that can get wet, and umbrella. I think I'm ready for anything. The new Site Manager was just here using our FAX machine, said he didn't know where it was, said he knows there are FAX machines around, he's heard about them, but he doesn't know where they are. I pointed ours out, told him about placing the paper face up, he asked about dialing '9' first, and I said to dial '8'. He told Penelope he uses any opportunity to come back here to our department, and secretly I hoped he wasn't quite kidding, that he returns my silly little crush. And he is little, have I mentioned? I stand 5'5" in bare feet, and I'd guess he is a good two inches shorter. Maybe more. But there is something about him, something, something, and I don't know what exactly. His manner, his demeanor, that 'essence rare', and isn't that a Gang of Four song? "That Essence Rare"? Oh, I was reading old entries in my diary last night, my little online diary, the one with well over one thousand entries (I know!), and I came across one entitled "The White Light of the Apocalypse", or something like that, and it was pretty good, I mean it really flowed. Sometimes I get in a groove, a writing groove, and if I'm talking about something that's interesting I keep going, all comma'd out and everything, kind of like this, see, with commas, long run on sentences, like, super long. But I enjoyed that entry. Yeah, whatever. Here is what I wanted to write, I remembered� I think I'm being wooed. Not to be confused with whoo hooed. Sort of courted, or maybe just, oh, I'm not sure. But the Yahoo! guy sent me poetry in his latest email. That was sort of nice. Sorta. I mean, poetry, and I wonder if he wrote it himself, I don't know. But I can't decide what to do with him, I'm so not sure, I've seen his picture and he doesn't really 'do it' for me, not enough, so I'm not pursuing, but he writes, and I write back, but not very quickly, and not often enough, and it's only been a few weeks, but he sent me poetry, about Autumn, and nature, and dew and leaves and well, it was nice. It was unexpected. And not totally unwelcome. Know what's cool about typing in MS Word? Sometimes, whilst typing, one might transpose a letter or two, and good ol' Word will fix it! On the spot! I like that. Thanks, Word. I have some 'documents' to 'process' now, so I'll take a little break ("�and we'll back after a while� oh I hear that South America is coming in style..." Do I have that right? A little Elvis Costello there). One down, one phone call. It's 'must fertilize egg' day, I can feel it. Skin's cleared, senses are heightened, I could easily have sex, but I have this headache I woke up with. Ooh, bad sentence. I have a headache with which I awoke, no, wait, a headache I've had since waking. Either way, ow. My body is so predictable, aside from the headaches, the womanly cycles all playing themselves out, or really just the one cycle, every month, like clockwork, all marked on the calendar, I can even tell you when I should start feeling cranky and hating the world. Probably Monday. And I should, key word 'should', be post-menstrual by the time I get on the bus to go to D.C. But today, aside from this vicious base of the neck pain, I'm so sensual - example, I was lightly touching my neck earlier, not sure why, but I made the touch lighter and lighter, and I was imagining someone else's finger there, and I nearly swooned, I nearly got that sensation of straight through neck nerve endings all the way down to labia electric flow, that instantly wet sensation, and had to stop. It's one of those days I realize I could easily have an orgasm next time I step into my favorite stall in the bathroom here at work. I just thought of a little story, a true story, because I was thinking that poetry is real nice and everything, but cash would be better. When I was a little woman, no, a child, or a prepubescent tartlet, there was a young gentleman who wanted me - we must have both been around 10 years old - and he offered me a crisp 5 spot one day while I was on the swingset at our apartments. Could've been a seesaw, or teeter totter, as we called them, but I think it was swings. I remember someone saying that he had ulterior motives, that he wanted to kiss me, but I could not be bought. However, I took the money. Was that the beginning? Was that when I became a hooker? No, wait, I never became a hooker, and there was no kiss, not with him, but I'll take money if you hand it to me. And thusly, poetry is nice, but cash is better. Really, suddenly I'm not so sure. I'm almost positive I took that little jerk's five dollar bill, all na�ve and everything. Like, "Hey, dude wants to give me five dollars, sure he likes me, but it doesn't mean I 'OWE' him anything, or anything, right?" Right. I'm at home now, eating another 'pouch' of the most delicious albacore tuna. Sorry, Charlie. No, Curt, it's NOT okay to eat fish, they DO have feelings. Haven't you seen "Finding Nemo"? It is 'finding', right? Suddenly I feel like I don't know anything for sure, even if Curt Kobain spelled his name Curt, or if it was Kurt, and Cobain, not Kobain. Oh no! I'm lost in the land of misspelled words and names!! Norma and Gladys just exchanged words. So to speak. It sounded all, "Aaaaaaa aaaaaa waaaaaaaAAA!", and it was over. That's a short 'a', by the way. I'm worried I'm going to need periodontal surgery. Both my parents had it, and the dentist used to say that people with good teeth usually have bad gums, and vice versa, and now this thing with my lower lip, the thing wherein it feels as though it's sticking to my teeth. It's the oddest sensation, and when I looked in the mirror at my gums, the other day at work (yesterday?), under the fluorescents, well, they looked sort of white, with veins running through them. They didn't look 'right' at all, and I panicked, before putting my lip back in place and putting my little hand mirror away. And now, post tuna sandwich, I have a blister inside my mouth. Like eating causes blisters sometimes. Is it the whole wheat? Does it hurt my mouth? What is wrong with me? Is it cancer? How long will I live? Do I have much longer? And if someone disobeys a crucial traffic law and crashes into my car, will I be provided funds for a new one? And with this mouth situation as it is, would anyone want to kiss me again? And will I ever have sex again? And, why, why, why? Suddenly so many questions. Oooh, I have to run. Well, walk, but rush, yes, rush. Cost of the War in Iraq
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