Everyone is so busy right now. I haven’t been on the WC much lately – too much work, so little time. Easter is on Sunday, and I just can’t get excited about it. It just means that I have less time to get my work done this week. It’s not fair! Every day that is a holiday should be extra, meaning that if Friday and Monday are holidays, then they should get tucked in after this Friday and before next Monday. That means Thurs, Fri, Good Friday, Sat, Easter Sun, Easter Mon, Mon, Tues, etc. You people that are “employed” still get your days off, while we who are “self-employed” can fit in the all-important work days, and then take that extra day off. I hear you howling! But you get those days off, while we still have to work, because we don’t get paid for not working like you do. If we want to take days off, we have to work like maniacs to fit all the work in, so we still meet our deadlines.
Now you see what you’ve done? I sat down to write about sex and instead find myself obsessing about work, work that I should be doing right now, since my lunch break is nearly over, a lunch break that I probably shouldn’t have taken, to write a piece that I shouldn’t be writing. My rent-boy muse has decided to take his holiday early, too, and I’m left alone here to contemplate my navel. Where is he? Probably Tenerife – I don’t know where he goes. He never takes me along. My best friend is S/E like me, and he’s just as manic as I am, since he has to go to Finland next week. It’s alright for some! I want to say that I hope it snows there … alas, he’s going to freeze his tootsies off anyway. Maybe I should send my muse there in his place and take my friend to Tenerife where it’s warm. Somehow, I don’t think his wife would go for that. Anyway, my muse is already gone.
Maybe I’d be more in the mood if I took my clothes off. Nobody’s watching, except you my dear reader. Well, it’s just too cold for that. I can’t even conjure up one of my Rupert Everett fantasies. He can be a little cool as an actor, but he’s not half dishy. I loved him in An Ideal Husband. I so wanted to be Minnie Driver. Did I ever tell you my friend knows her cousin from way back? Probably not. That’s me: I know people who know people, but I’m never the first one in the chain. Of course, he’s never met Minnie. I say that with only hint of jealousy because I know that he has actually met a few rather famous personalities.
There I go, more digressions, I slip into streams that I don’t want to swim in – the water’s cold – and the one where I’d like to go skinny-dipping seems to be closed for the holiday. Maybe I’ll just leave you a pic – she wants to be my friend, apparently. (Why did I ever open a hi5 account? It’s closed now.) Why is it only women that want to be my friends? Don’t hunky guys ever flaunt themselves in internet sex chat rooms? I’m not into hunky anyway, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.
Just pray that I dream of Rupert tonight and not the woman-across-the-street’s dog (again).