Of Pens and Swords

ahh, I almost had you, didn’t I…

Yesterday, then today, two seperate sides of the world, two people that I don’t enjoy were nice with me, to me, around me. That cute kind of nice, when you know they’re just trying to get something from you…the nice that is as sweet as a double fudge, chocolate chip, chocolate iced cake…sure looks good, fuckin smells awesome, but you’ll get sick the first bite…HA! Gotcha! go wretch you wretch!

Yesterday, the ex, asking for extra money for clothes for my daughter for school. I could bitch and complain that that’s what the child support is for, but it’s not worth it. Plus, if I were home, I’d end up taking her shopping anyways, so realistically, who’s losing out here…Just making the ex the proxy for clearance racks clothe removal…It could have ended there though. Hey, Ex husband STOP Daughter needs clothes STOP send a buck or two STOP I would have understood that, and probably prefered that. I get the email though, set in 1940’s Venice, the sweet sweet story of a girl and her troubles after the war…you can hear the violins play in the background…Ya, I never got into those novels either.

Why can’t she just write like she used to talk to me….I come in the door after work, she walks out, yelling something about going out, maybe see you tomorrow, and the house is a wreck, hope you can…..door slams, truck tears out of driveway, then she’s gone. See, then it was simple, I knew I wouldn’t see her but for 3 minutes a week, and what little was ever communicated between passing was usually really short.
I’m not so sure I like the ex being chipper with me. Feels like she’s trying to disarm me before the assault. Maybe I just found it’s more reassuring in my life to hate her than anything else. Well, not hate, like dragging down the street by the ankle behind an old pickup truck right after I smashed the teeth out of her head with a coke bottle hate, more the you did your best to destroy my life and I left before it was completed and before I ultimately destroyed yours in a more of a literal fashion then spend 25 years in prison, so I’ll never be your friend but will be cordial type of hate.

Yeah, anyways…
Today, my Supervisor is the same damn way. Though, him being nice is so much more scarey. He asked questions on how to fix things and payed attention to what I taught him, tried to make jokes, and was talkative…Ick, for some reason, I feel dirty now…

You know, I looked, and I don’t see a script anywhere on this page that says today you should be nice to me. I’m not extending an open invitation for all of you’s to be dick’s, assholes, and bitches, but for fucksake, be your damn selves…

well, those were those two issues. The last one is a self issue. For some reason, when I’m hung over or very very tired, I’m fuckin’ horny. I don’t have the energy to talk coherently, don’t have the motivation to complete sente
but I can find the engergy to fuck until every muscle and vein in my body is screaming for air…I can’t do this well rested, and boy oh boy, I can’t do that when I’m drunk….Something my baby has yet to find out (since we haven’t tried to have sloppy drunk monkey sex yet, which is actually nice (maybe I’ll go into detail about that some other time)).
So, I’m sitting in my office all day, tired as hell, and damn if I don’t have a hard-on half the day. The people that sit in this office with me probably won’t enjoy reading this, but rest assured, it’s not from you hairy bastards. It’s one of those days that I enjoyed having my own place. No one around…Big Red One pops up, and well, nature takes over. Go in the bedroom, grab the tshirt that you wore the day before so you don’t leave odd little stains on the carpet and the couch, and well, I’m sure you know the rest. It’s nice because I could do that 10 times a day if I wanted, never get dressed, just walk around with the perpetual hard-on, watch tv, and fuck my hand all day.

Talking about that, any of you kids ever think about joining the military….just remember, all your sex in life comes in one to two week doses a year…that’s it. you spend 50+ weeks a year fucking your hand. Wives and girlfriends get mad at us for looking at porn, but jesus christ, the only other two options we have are cheating on you, or becoming gay and choking down a big fat cock…which, I suppose, is still cheating on you. No kids, the military isn’t a life of glamour and women in fact don’t even like you. If you’re an ugly kid, you’ll have even less likely hood of ever getting laid. Why do you think grunts go after all the fat chicks and the ho’s? because we only have a week to get some fucking pussy to augment our imaginations for the next 6-9 months. We go after what’s guarantee’d. Join the Army son, your country needs you….and you’ll learn all 212 techniques to stroking yourself….You haven’t beat off until you’ve beat off while under fire kid.

and how the hell did I get here.

anyways. Only a few more months, then Uncle Sugar is through with us….We get a General somewhere to signoff on the fact that “Yes, they are in fact so full of bullshit that we have no more use for them” and then send us home. It’s going to be a long flight. We’ll be tired. Too tired….means I’ll be horny…

So you comin to see me baby?