Stress

“Bother,” said Pooh.

Well, pits.

So that’s it for Mischief, the 26-year-old Goth Biscuit.

I guess I’m starting in the middle of the story. For the record, this weekend had ups and downs. Let’s get the maudlin out of the way so we can end on a high note (for once). In addition to the money strains, the aforementioned knuckle-rapping for this very blog, and the inability to solve the truck problems from earlier in the week (fucking holidays), my friend Amber has been having a major relationship meltdown.

Which segues into Mischief.

Understand, I’ve known this girl for less than two weeks, ya’all. We’ve seen each other exactly four times. We haven’t fucked (for reasons she explained to me on our first date, having to do with a promise made to a long-distance conquest who was incoming in June), but we’ve indulged in just about everything else.

This weekend, in a whirlwind of (to my mind) wanton manipulation, her most recent ex, whom Mischief is far from even beginning to get over, appeared like a bolt of lightning from the clear blue sky to propose. And she’s going for it.

I know, that was my reaction. But you can’t live people’s lives for them.

I’m not crushed or heartbroken… four dates, y’know? But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. She’s smart, funny, sexy & dirty. You can smell it on her, feel it in her skin. There was potential there, a big, heavy, potent aura of it that both of us were keenly aware of. It’s a shame, but I missed the train this time, and wish her good luck.

Vaya con huevos, kiddo. Go with eggs.

On the plus side, Adrianna & I went to see Prince of Persia on Saturday night, which was really, awfully, hysterically bad. Just soooooo bad.

I’ll get a full review up once Rob & I record our new podcast tomorrow night.

The point is spending time with Adrianna is fucking great. We ate, walked a little to kill time, prowled bookstores, almost missed the movie (what a crime that would have been). We had fun. But. I’m just not sure what the hell we’re doing. I’m not sure she’s sure.

Not that there necessarily has to be a point. We’ve known each other for years, so it might be that, for Adrianna, I’ve gotten wedged into the “friend” drawer next to the stripy socks. For my part, I want to lick the sweat out of her navel. I would drag my dick through a mile of broken glass just to jack off in her shadow.

Too much?

Of course, I’ve always felt that way about Adrianna. Most men — hell, most people — feel that way about her. She just oozes sexuality, even when she isn’t doing anything. Even when she dresses down and tries to hide it. Must be kind of a pain in the ass.

If she gives me an indication she feels anything similar, I’ll send up a flare, have it advertised on the side of the Goodyear Blimp, and print up T-shirts. Watch this space for details.

If not, I’m perfectly happy being her occasional partner-in-crime. She’s a great companion.

Otherwise, tomorrow is a busy day; errands to do in the morning since the entire country closed up shop over the weekend, a new podcast to shoot with Rob in the evening, and somewhere in there, editing before the whole Naughty America machine rolls up again Wednesday.

Maybe I can get to sleep before 5 a.m…?

In the meantime, here is a little gift Mischief turned me onto. A great song about relationships by British comedian Tim Minchin…

Time is an implacable enemy. I’ve fought this battle with time and its constraints for as long as I can remember. Which is, granted, not as far back as I once could remember, middle-age being what it is.

I feel certain that the things which require doing by me — jobs, projects, tasks, etc. — things which cannot be delegated, assigned or outsourced, would easily fill every waking moment of my time from now until my death, and possibly not be completed. And this is assuming I could STOP. Accrue nothing else to “the list,” reach a point of gaining momentum where I was scratching things off without the list lengthening.

This, of course, is impossible. The very enterprise of my life is a pointless farce, and yet I continue.

I have only recently learned that I have the privilege of continuing to pay for what I refer to as The Most Costly Vacation in History, a month-long trip to London, not taken by me, which has cost me not only thousands of dollars, but my relationship as well. And all I got was this lousy T-shirt. Tomorrow, whether I will or no, this trip will cost me another $1,400, drawn inexorably from an account as bare and overtaxed as Ma Hubbard’s cupboard.

And yet I continue.

Last night, I was able to escape for a time. I spent a lovely evening with a submissive in her 20s who seems to enjoy my company, and is young enough to find me “interesting” rather than “jaded.” This was made all the better because it occurred away from home base, which has lately come to be a living metaphor for all my loss and failure, one which I spend my days occupying.

But escape is a transitive state, and we can only run away so far, and for so long. So here I am. I’m not normally one to allow myself the luxury of catalepsy; but today, this afternoon, for just now, I’m welcoming the paralysis.

And then I’ll continue.

As I do.

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