Taking one for the team

L’histoire de Melody Nelson arrived chez Figaro yesterday, as he told me in the following words: “Yeah, so, I got your Cameltoe Classics CD.” That does look quite vicious, doesn’t it?









I need a haircut, I’m starting to look like an Old Man of the Andes. Also this will be the one that finally cuts out the tiny remnants of a crap streak job a well-meaning retard gave me before I started my master’s in 2003, and which a series of hairdressers has tried to mask since. 2003, bitches. My god my god my god. If time seems to spin wildly backwards over a series of bewildering events when I’m 27, I’ll be completely barking mad by the time I hit menopause.

Anyways, I’d get a haircut today but I’m going to Montréal after work for Miss T’s wedding. Everybody is getting married or pregnant these days, it’s like cholera. J*Fish just got word from an ex that she is heavy with child. I remember the first time one of my exes had a baby. I soooo knew he was going to have the baby, and I knew he’d have it the 12 months after I left town forever that he did. It made me feel a little funny, though. A rather shameful cocktail of ‘thank god we used protection’ and ‘oh, er, technically don’t his balls belong to me? Shouldn’t he have asked permission?’

Anyways again, this is Miss T’s wedding, the one with all the mathematicians. When I went to her shower a month or so ago it was proclaimed to the room that as the only unambiguously single female guest, and one Miss T, at least, knew parts of the checkered sexual history of, I was going to have to single-handedly marathon circle-jerk the hordes of single mathematicians in attendance, or something – the women making such statements were quite prim, some religious, so it was more words to that effect. No longer being unambiguously single aside, it wasn't cool . . . so I must give this advice to any unslutty ladies reading this blog.

Please don’t let that needling inner voice that wonders if you’ve missed out by never being loose lure you into entertaining abstract Miller-esque grandiosities about sluttery. Honestly, there is an element of personal choice involved. Women who like fucking around when they're single aren’t giant voracious snatches going through life in a perpetual state of moist readiness, and it isn't reasonable to assume they're going to jump into every high-density-of-single-man situation with open legs and a lasso. An Italian sophomore engineering boy’s dorm, maybe; a party of single Canadian mathematicians in their late 20’s, less so. Women who sleep with anything aren’t sluts, they’re dealing with some sort of complex. Just as you may well be if you espouse the bizarre belief that the percentage of the female population easily identified as sluts is endlessly occupied by finding strategies to fuck their indiscriminate ways through the mindless miasma of their own uncontrollable lust.

Whew, I feel better now.