Gobblegobblegobble.
November 23rd, 2001 by Kevin
You know, it’s very sad. I started this diary in hopes that it would further my powers of self-expression, enhance my ability to write stream-of-consciousness-type stuff, and generally give me a deeper look into into my own psyche(because one can never be too self-obsessed).However, I have been surfing Diaryland quite a bit, and it’s brought out the type A Trance. As much as it pains me to confess it, I have become nothing but a cheap, shameless ratings whore who is desperate to learn web design in two days so that I can create Mega-Super-Awesome Diary. How horrific. The idea that someone would give two shits about my life was laughable a few weeks ago, and now I desperately add site counters and check my statistics, wondering who has come to read my fascinating tales of the mundane. I’ve surfed so many beautifully done, wonderfully written sites lately that I am amazed that anyone would possibly come read mine, but I guess a few of you do. And I thank you. And if you know HTML, please clue me in, because I would really be a much more content person this evening if I had some cool graphics and fonts on this thing. And if you’re a sweetheart who can forgive the “hit slut” in me, Clix me. (See button at bottom of page.)
I feel like a grade school kid who just got a Trapper Keeper, only to discover I’m sitting next to a kid who has the “Mega-Super-Awesome” Trapper Keeper, which is so awe-inspiring and amazing that it makes my sorry little plastic folder look like poop.
Heh. I’m such a geek.
Turkey Day was uneventful, for the most part. My stepdad’s drunkenness was kept down to a startlingly bare minimum, my stepbrothers and stepsister were subdued, and D. and J. ate turkey quietly. Lithium Thanksgiving.
To be honest, I was disappointed. Thanksgiving is a pretty boring holiday, as far as holidays go. You eat too much, you eat some more, and you sit on your bloated ass and watch football(And yes, I did watch football. No one wanted to watch Purple Rain, even though my stepdad just re-bought it on DVD. Bastards.)
By the way, Creed’s halftime show for the Dallas Cowboys game was a TRAVESTY. The band is crap anyway, but for the love of God, this show was purely ridiculous. There were flags flying, the creme-de-la-hoochie Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders AND a group of some weird dance-gymnast hybrids were trying to swing their barely-covered little heinies to too-slow songs, a gospel choir came bouncing in halfway through, random children started pouring onto the stage…you really didn’t know what the hell would appear next! At the end of this spectacle, one of the cheerleaders relaxed her choke hold on a white dove and released the poor thing into the sky in a truly half-hearted and over-sentimentalized gesture. God, it was painful to watch.
Anyways, there are really no major points of interest regarding Turkey Day, except for the food, the long weekend, and the family drama. And dammit, I don’t work, so the long weekend doesn’t really matter to me; and I’m not big into bingeing, so the food isn’t a huge thrill. All I want is a little insanely emotive drunken drama to spice up my holiday, and no one delivered. Hell, what’s the point of coming from a dysfunctional family if they don’t provide you with some damn entertainment once in a while???
During my teenage and early adult years, I provided enough embarrassing/emotional/drunken/drugged/vomiting scenes to make a few bad Lifetime movies; so now it’s time to pass the torch. Someone else had better start dishin’ up some drama. My day-to-day life is too dull to let holidays sneak past without enjoying any mirth at someone else’s expense.
We did share a few good stories, though, mainly for D.’s benefit. I’m an adopted only child, so I used to be very envious of the fact that my step-siblings had grown up as a tight family unit. Even though they pretty much embraced me as one of their own from the get-go, I occasionally was…rotten. When I was about 13 or 14 and my stepbrother C.(who looks less like the other 4 boys) was about ten or eleven, I told him that he was adopted as well, and that his real parents were yak herders in Poland. I had a pretty good story going, and had him convinced that he couldn’t tell my stepdad, because “it would break your dad’s heart to know that his painful secret was out”. Wasn’t I the little snot? That brought back a good chuckle. The poor kid had no idea what a yak was.
I had to take some ‘roids today, due to a nasty asthma outbreak, so I’m sure I won’t sleep for a while. Grr. Steroids suck. I’m not sure how similar the medical ones are to the ones that the muscleheads take, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to feel this wired and crabby. Hungry, too. The spinach dip is murmuring sweet nothings from the fridge, but I am trying to ignore it.
Speaking of murmuring sweet nothings, I think D. is getting a little antsy due to the serious decline in sexual activity in this house. I don’t know quite what to do about it. I am not a person who can fake. Not orgasm, not desire, not enthusiasm, nada. And lately, it just isn’t happening in libido-land. To me, it’s justifiable. The past few weeks have been a bitch.
I’d like to yell, “Hey, if you were bleeding from your crotch for months on end, having your brain picked every week this month, and sleeping less than four hours most evenings, how ’sexed up’ would you feel??”
I don’t know. Half of me feels like I should just do it to make him happy, and half of me knows that would be a horrible, soulless thing to do. I would feel like Strom Thurmond at a rave, and D. would probably feel like he was boinking a narcoleptic.
I’m normally kind of a horny person. I write and collect erotica. I like to think about sex. I like to experiment with sex. I like to have sex regularly. I’m not sure what’s changed, but it’s freaking me out. (Probably not half as much as it’s freaking D. out - he’s probably ready to call in crisis intervention counselors…)
I hope that I can simply chalk the decreased nooky up to fatigue, illness, and stress. I also hope that I can get in the mood this weekend, because I’m starting to see wrinkles in his forehead in the morning - and I think there is one for every day sans sex.
I hate the cold, ice-queeny feeling of turning away and rolling towards the wall. It makes me feel like I’m the biggest frigid bitch to ever walk the earth.
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