How about that!
Well, no worries. I'm here now. I'm sorry, my babies. I never should've left you alone so long with no new content to read. I know you're still reading. Still searching me out on google with phrases like "Cock up the ass" and "Sex with my mom." Which is gross. Especially together. You sick fucks.
I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! You're not sick! You're maybe a little disturbed because of that time with the bad touching, but I'm confident you'll work through it in time.
So it's a new year. I think. I haven't looked at a clock in days. I've actually been stuck under my sofa for the last several weeks. I crawled under there to find an errant cheezie, but I guess I put on more weight in '05 than I wanted to admit because, well darn it all! I got stuck!
The elastic wasteband from My Hanes Her Ways got caught on a spring and I got hung up. Every little thing that I tried to do, I was hung up, hung up on you. Okay. No. That was Madonna. But the time did go by so slowly for those who were... um, caught up on the couch spring.
Luckily, I had that cheezie to get me through my ordeal. I begged the cat to go get me the phone, but he just scratched my head and then licked the blood from the wound. It was gross and I worried he would get a taste for it, like a shark. Of course, that was ridiculous. What was he going to do? Become, like, a cat zombie or something? I'm sure I saw a movie about it once. Maybe Zombie Death Kitten wasn't about what I thought it was about.
At any rate, I didn't like the way he was eyeing me. So I fashioned a poking device and kept him at bay.
After the second day, when he'd run out of kibble, he started in on me again, this time, growing more brave. He'd wait until I was overcome with fatigue. I'd be nodding off and then feel sharp little nicks at my jugular. I'd jerk awake and swat feebly at him.
If only I'd called him Mr. Jingles instead of the Chairman Meow! Maybe then this wouldn't have happened! Maybe I wouldn't need a blood transfusion now. A fact I learned of after the firefighters finally broke down the door with an axe.
How did they know I needed rescuing, you ask? Simple. I had soiled myself several times and the neighbours had begun to complain about the rank smell coming from my apartment. They couldn't find the landlord. He was probably out buying high grade heroin with my rent money. I was only communicating by blinking at that point, so I couldn't even yell at them to use the key under the mat so I wouldn't lose my damage deposit.
Man, talk about it being a good day to die! I mean, here I am, completely exhausted and filthy after writhing among the dust bunnies and my own feces for days and in walks this handsome, swarthy stud, weilding an axe like he's Jack Torrence up in this hizzy!
Of course, there was one convenience. Having been stuck there for almost two weeks, I'd shed some of that annoying extra poundage that put me in this predicament to begin with! I wasn't completely starving though.
After the first four days, I blacked out from hunger and when I woke up, I realized I must have done what I needed to do to survive. I'd eaten all my fingernails and started in on my hair. Plus, I had that dusty cheezie.
So the firefighter scooped me up in his arms and told me he'd take care of everything from now on.
I took that to mean he'd take me to a hospital where I likely need an IV and possibly intensive care. Instead, he deposited me at the salon where he got his highlights done. He introduced me to his stylist, Maurice, and asked him to "do something about those roots!"
Maurice spoke the pompotous of love and crooned sweet nothings into my chewed-up hair and he got started slapping strips of foil and colourant onto my follicles.
Sometime between the time under the dryer and the second shampoo, I realized that Maurice and Kevin (the firefighter, they're always named Kevin somehow) were more than stylist and patron. They were lovers.
I know this because after Maurice checked the colour the first time and declared I needed "twenty more minutes, dollface," he led Kevin behind my chair (I didn't have the strength to turn my neck) and I could hear the sound of their lovemaking.
There was no evidence of it when they came back and neither spoke, but I could tell by the way Maurice was massaging my scalp and humming Somewhere Over the Rainbow that he'd just been fucked. All our gay male stylists should be so sexually satisfied!
I looked fabulous when I was done! I doubted his choice of caramel highlights over my usual honey, but he insisted and of course, he was right! He was right about the layers as well. And he was also right about me needing a new wardrobe.
Being stuck under a couch for two weeks does wonders for a girl's figure, but it seriously hinders her wardrobe. Now I know how all those Survivor contestants feel!
So thanks to Maurice and Kevin and of course, Ikea's devine Klippen sofa and the spring that worked itself loose from the undercarriage, I think 2006 is going to be a fabulous year fraught with opportunities and excitement!
Can't wait, diary! I just can't wait!
P.S. - Obviously, the comments are broken. And by broken, I mean, I am poor and did not upgrade my gold account. Should you like to respond to this, or any other entry, you can click on the "Light My Tilt Sign" button to your left. It takes you to my guestbook where you can tell me what a big, fat, liar I am, or list the reasons why you would like to father my children. Which is fine, but you should know in advance, that I've already leased out my womb to Angelina Jolie. So any fruit of my loins goes immediately into her pic-a-nic basket. Eh, it's a living.
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