Pull up a chair, friends and neighbors. I bring you a new installment in that most popular of tag-label categories, The Biz.
At this late date, constant readers will know that I am an unapologetic, tried-and-true sadomasochist. My sexuality is queer as a three-dollar bill; I think the only thing orthodox about it is that I’m a pure heterosexual.
Consequently, I understand many of the people I’ve met at the Studio, where I practice in my professional capacity. Not all of them–heavens, no–but many. I understand their needs, and I empathize with them. Were I male, I would almost certainly be doing exactly what they are doing, sitting–literally–where they are sitting, in that chair in the consultation room.
Most of them recognize that I “get it.” Especially the masochists. We identify each other on some subconscious inner radio frequency. I’m not making that up; that observation has been expressed to me on several occasions.
Well, there’s one guy who hires me on a regular basis whom I don’t grok at all–not one damn bit. He boggles my mind, as a matter of fact. And yet, he loves me.
Let’s call him…Joey.
One of the reasons I am telling you about Joey, gentle reader, is that I know Joey would not object if he knew that I was writing about him. Indeed, the knowledge would fill Joey with excitement and happy anticipation.
Joey comes to see me, and every time he does, he brings in paperwork.
Paperwork that only your employer, your spouse, and your accountant should lay eyes on.
Bank statements. Online banking printouts from his checking, savings, and credit card accounts, going back months.
Income tax records.
His passport and Social Security Card.
And much, much more…
This is the session: I sit across the desk and methodically go through the paperwork, often reading aloud. Assuming an air of casual cruelty (or trying to, anyway–in my head, I am actually pretty alarmed at what this man is doing to himself), I rattle off numbers, addresses, telephone numbers, purchases, the names of his old fraternity brothers.
I threaten to blackmail him. I threaten to call his wife, his ex-wife. I threaten to ruin his life.
I pull out my cell phone and take photos of his credit cards (front and back), his bank statements. A picture of him holding today’s copy of The New York Times, just like the terrorists do in their videos. I take audio recordings of his voice. I say that I could text the photos to anyone–anyone at all!
I go through his wallet–everything in it–and make xerox copies of the various business cards I find. I take the money out of his wallet, count it, and put it in my purse. I make him turn out his pockets. On occassion, I have trotted him outside in the bright winter sunshine to an ATM and made him withdraw cash to give to me (I know his PIN numbers).
I laugh at him. I ridicule him.
“What the hell is the matter with you, you sick little monkey?” I shout in his face (that part involves no acting on my end, I assure you).
“You’re holding my life in your hands!” he says, pleading (he repeats this a lot). He twitches in an agony of terror and arousal.
“I know that! What is the matter with you?” (Boy, he has no idea, but I really mean it.)
I think that he might come in his pants towards the end, but I’m not sure. Don’t know, never asked.
And get this: he leaves the paperwork with me!
The next time he visits, he asks me what I did with the paperwork.
I tell him that I keep it in a folder in a fireproof safe in my apartment. He loves this.
(The truth is, I only keep a few pertinent details so that I can throw them in his face during the session. The rest of the paperwork I run through my paper-shredder. Then I shred the shreddings. I’d burn it if I could figure out a way to do so without setting off the fire alarm. I don’t sweat during the session–that’s his job–but boy, do I ever sweat when I destroy his paperwork. I actually feel fearful for this guy. It’s the damndest thing.)
The closest that the Surgeon ever came to finding out that I was working at the Superstudio (that I know of) was when he found a picture of Joey’s bank card in my phone when he (the Surgeon) was snooping through it (don’t ask).
“What’s this?” he asked, his brow furrowing. He turned the screen towards me to show me what he was looking at.
Uh-oh–think fast! “Uhhh…my student lost his bank card and thought he might have left it at someone’s desk. He sent out the photo so people would recognize it if they saw it.”
The Surgeon relaxed, mollified.
Anyway, except for this insane game Joey likes to play, he seems normal. Educated, white-collar job, wife he seems to have a good relationship with, healthful recreational interests. He’s athletic, not bad-looking (I am not attracted to him in the slightest, however). Doesn’t drink much. No drugs.
So: what’s going on…? I understand the link between fear and arousal very well (for all you normals out there, it’s the reason why horror films contain so much gratuitous sex). Is Joey just taking that ball and running with it? I don’t know. Every now and again I send Joey and e-mail with a photo of his paperwork attached. This works him up into a frenzy and he comes to see me within a day or two.
I wish that I could say it was easy money for me, but it’s not. It’s really, really not.
Joey is lucky that I am an ethical person…but he doesn’t know that I’m an ethical person. He doesn’t know anything about me, other than the fact that he enjoys the way that I handle him.
Eventually, he’ll tire of me–familiarity with my mannerisms will take the edge off of the terror–and he’ll move on to someone new. What if she’s not like me? What if she’s nuts? What if she gives him what a part of him really wants, and exploits him? I mean, none of this is my problem. It’s Joey’s problem. But sometimes, as I delete his pics on my phone and shred his bank statements, I wonder about it.
For the last three nights I have dreams complex, vivid dreams. Very strange content matter. Some of it was new material, which is interesting. Although they were not nightmares, the dreams were mostly unpleasant in tone–even the sex parts, and usually sex dreams are awesome. I woke up feeling disoriented and a little upset.
The Surgeon backed off a little bit and I thought that the worst was over, and then he sent me something in the mail. Not sure what to do with it or how to respond (or whether I should respond at all–probably not).
I told my friend about it.
“It’s a bribe! A bribe!” She declared, reminding me: “He’s a sick fuck!”
Ah, indeed it is, and indeed he is, and I am in a vulnerable position right now, and so very bribable.
My emotions cannot be trusted and my frustrated sexuality is being a total pain in the ass. It is just so unacceptable. If I wanted to be sexually frustrated, I’d get married.
I was advised by another M.D. that I could get the Surgeon off my back in two seconds if I complained about him to his professional organization. This is excellent advice that I will file away for safekeeping, but it’s a last resort, for obvious reasons.
I squandered over an hour of my life on this blog, and I wanted to share it with my readers in the hopes that your work productivity or precious free time will be similarly diminished (or enriched, depending on how you look at it).
It is a UK-based blog dedicated to, uhhh, bad parking. I don’t know about you, gentle reader, but when I used to drive, bad, selfish parkers drove me batty. I was once engaged in a silly and completely unnecessary war with a neighbor, a passive-aggressive Asian exchange student, who felt entitled to park his enormous boat of a 1982 Grand Marquis next to my defenseless little tin can car (in doing so, his car also occluded the alleyway behind our apartments, I might add). Boxed me in every….single…time. I had to climb in through the passenger side on many, many occasions. My notes to him started out polite, but grew increasingly urgent, and he refused to engage with me in person when I knocked on his door.
Eventually, after much complaining to the landlord, my neighbor was forced to park his boat on the street. I was so obsessed with the parking battle by this point in time that I wanted to run out there and do the dirty chicken victory dance on the empty parking space. So, so petty, but neighbors can drive you nuts sometimes. (FYI, my neighbor flipped the landlord a symbolic middle finger by dumping his ratty old couch in his old, contested parking spot when he moved out. I also think he keyed my car, but I can’t prove it.)
Anyway, this blog is dedicated to bad parking. Be warned, the commentary underneath the photos is full of profanity, so it might not be safe for work. The cursing is in British English, so I’m unfamiliar with most of it, which negates its offensiveness and somehow makes the content matter more hilarious to me. It’s like listening to Gordon Ramsay swear at people in the parking lot. Or the “car park.”
|Cook’s California Champagne: Keeping it Classy since 1859|
Update Monday March 12, 2012: “Group Conscience” at my non-Atheist AA Home Group has ruled my run-in with three glasses of flat Cook’s champagne to be a ‘slip’ rather than a ‘relapse.’ (My atheist group, predictably, was disinclined to judge me either way.) That means I have 90 days since my pre-Christmas relapse! YAAAAY! I have been sober for all but 5 days in the last 9 months!
* * *
I relapsed on half a bottle of Cook’s champagne that someone else left in the fridge.
How very dignified, Miss Margo. I mean, really. If I had to mess it up again, the least I could have done was drink something top-shelf. Cook’s champagne is basically the “classy” alternative to Thunderbird or Arbor Mist. In addition, it had gone flat, which contributed to its charm.
Drinking the champagne (“champagne!” ha! ha!) was both stupid and pointless. It was stupid because alcohol kills alcoholics. It was pointless because I did not even get drunk. A part of me is tempted to run to the store, buy a bottle of whatever, and at least finish the job.
However, I have enough of my wits about me (Cook’s–your champagne is ineffective!) to realize that getting blasted would be moronic. Spectacularly ill-advised.
Behold, gentle reader, the truly bizarre thinking of the addict: “Since I already had three glasses of Cook’s, I might as well get blackout drunk by myself in my apartment with my neon tetras.”
“Thank God you did not get inebriated and disgrace or endanger yourself or anyone else. Wouldn’t it be more fun to read the new issue of Harper’s that just came in the mail? Or paint your toenails, or stand in traffic, or ANYTHING other than get drunk? By the way, you know this shit is going to destroy your life if you keep doing it, right? You can still pull out of this with your health, intellect, and reputation intact. You can still have a future.”
Why would I even want to get drunk if I know what it feels like and its attendant consequences? Really. This is an honest question. It’s not as if it feels fun anymore. They call it “happy hour” for a reason: you feel good for about an hour. Getting drunk on a regular basis becomes very boring, and very redundant, very quickly. I wish that was the worst I could say about alcohol. I quit because it was making me feel badly, and then it started to get scary. I’ve heard stories in A.A. meetings that would turn your hair white. Horror stories. Comparatively, I started drinking late in my life, and drank alcoholically for only a few years (I am not trying to minimize my behavior). I was mostly a quiet, at-home drinker (I think women tend to be), and for most of that time, I was functional. I was never raped (to my recollection, ha ha), robbed, beaten up, thrown in prison, or thrown out of a bar. None of my friends were hard drinkers. I didn’t drink at school, at work, or when I was writing professionally (I confess: I did drink wine sometimes while grading freshman essays at night. You would drink if you had to grade them too, gentle reader. I assure you. One immortal line, which I shall never forget, was: “The Odyssey is like the movie Pirates of the Carribean (sic), only without Johnny Depp.” Yes yes, pass me the wine, please.)
The gist of that imperfect paragraph is that, compared to many drinkers, I got off light. Very light. Nor did I have any family to harm, thank God, thank God. But I’ll tell you something else: it was still so terrible that by the time I knew that I had to give it up, I was so miserable that I wanted to die. That is not an exaggeration. It was truly wretched. Astonishingly, it never occurred to me that soaking my brain in whiskey most nights out of the week might be a contributing factor in my unhappiness. I thought to myself, “I’ll stop when things get better! I’ll stop when things get better!” But see, I had it backwards–circumstances did not (indeed, could not) get better until I stopped.
And, as I mentioned above, things were starting to get scary, and that’s saying a lot. (Miss Margo was imprinted wrong, and so things (and individuals) that other people find frightening do not necessarily disturb her. Instead, she is frightened of other things, such as spending the night in bed with a man and then eating breakfast with him. FREAKOUT!!!) A small constellation of frightening and utterly unnecessary alcohol-related experiences which occurred within a two-month period of time. Some alcoholics experience a catastrophic, life-changing event which constitutes their “bottom;” I had a handful of smaller ones.
But it was enough. It was enough. It had become intolerable.
So, I dragged myself in to see the drug and alcohol counselor at the Campus health clinic. She had me complete an extensive survey about my drinking. It took an hour to finish. I was honest about everything.
I went back to see her and get the survey results a few days later. She looked up from her computer screen and calmly told me that I consumed more alcohol than, like, 94% of the college population.
So, how are we going to fix this…? I wasn’t physically addicted (yet), so I didn’t need detox or inpatient rehab. I could probably quit on my own volition without being strapped to a table in a fucking psych ward. Fortunately, we got to skip those parts.
I’ll tell you what, friends and neighbors. The options on the recovery menu for addicts in this country are very limited. One might say that it is indeed frix prixe. That is being generous.
Would you like Alcoholics Anonymous, or would you like Alcoholics Anonymous?
You. Have Got. To be shitting me.
Is this really the best you can do for us, modern psychiatry? AA? Thanks for nothing! They should force every M.D. to read The Big Book in their residency.
As you might infer from my tone, I am not a fan. I will refrain from further criticism, but I assure you, the catalog would make for some serious reading. I mean, they should play audio tapes of this book to torture the terrorists with at Gitmo.
If I said this at a meeting, at least a few people there would want to chop my head off and they would not be shy of telling me so (if you are in AA, you know exactly what I’m talking about). Think of those crazy Arab dudes who went homicidal over the cartoons of Mohammad in that Dutch magazine.
I fear their wrath and their spam and hateful hatemail, so I’ll shut up now.
Fortunately, I live in New York City. There are AA meetings here for everyone. There is probably an AA meeting for tran-sexual turkeys somewhere.
I found a few meetings for people like myself. They help. My personal belief is that AA helps because it re-connects you to the human race. By the time you actually get there–you know, show up for the first time–you’ve pretty much dropped out of life. It’s the individuals and their stories that have helped me, rather than ‘The Program.’
I am so, so glad that I spent two hours writing this blog post instead of getting drunk. It is not the best blog post I have ever written, but I enjoyed writing it. Writing is definitely better for me than drinking. Must remember that.
Three glasses of Cook’s is not the end of the world. Boy, did I ever dodge that bullet. Believe me, if I was sitting here drunk right now (and I would be, watching nature vids on YouTube or some random thing), I would be feeling as if it was the end of the world. As every police officer, bouncer, and prosecutor will tell you, booze does not exactly enhance the accuracy of one’s, ahh, perspective.
Tell you what–every time I really want to drink, I am going to sit down here and type out a scene from my drunkalogue. Not to shame myself, but to keep the terror of what that was like fresh in my mind. That is accurate perspective.
P.S. I CANNOT WAIT until I’ve recovered enough that I don’t have to maintain it all the damn time. This is hard work. It’s also ANNOYING.
I think I might be losing my mind. Just in the interest of full disclosure.
I had about five hours’ sleep last night until I woke up unnecessarily early could not fall back asleep. I tossed and turned; finally got up.
I had vivid, unpleasant dreams last night. This blog entry is not the first thing I’ve written today–when I have a very sharp dream, I write it down as soon as I awake, before it fades (usually, thankfully, the composition of dreams are brief–they tend to be compact; dense). The themes of the dream were not unfamiliar to me. I’d post it here, but you would find the content matter offensive, and you would be concerned for my sanity and peace of mind.
(and check this out–I have a LIT REVIEW that I have to submit later today; I’m writing it for pay. It is mostly composed, thank heaven, but it still needs about three hours more of fine-tuning. I do not submit inferior work, especially if I am being paid for my services. And I. Do NOT. Want to even LOOK at it.)
I. am. obsessed. by men right now.
I’ve always had a strong libido, and unless I was in a monogamous relationship (and yes, believe it or not, gentle reader, I can be monogamous and emotionally true when I commit to that–in the past, with men I loved, I was monogamous for years), I have indulged myself and been a swinging single. Well, oftentimes. Grad school ate my life for several years and I was NOT living in, ahh, a very fashionable neighborhood during that time. Luckily, when you are female, nobody discriminates against you for being broke and living in the ghetto (you are discriminated against for other reasons, which is why I always advise female friends to get it–sex and male attention–while the getting is good. You hit forty, forty-five, and the shoe is on the other foot in dazzling speed.).
Wait, where was I going with this…?
Oh, yes. As if I could forget! Ha, ha!
I want a man. I want a man. I want a man. Craving craving craving.
Furthermore, I cannot act on my impulses because I recognize that my desires are making me nuts, and therefore I am vulnerable. My judgement is unsound. It will be better soon, even in a week, I have no doubt, but in the meantime I have to wait this out. I will probably be a little more sane as soon as tomorrow, but right now, I want I want I want I want.
Sorry, gentle reader, but in the immediate future you should only expect posts about imaginary boyfriends and dad crushes and boy shoes and how fascinating it is to watch men shave and open jars and pick up heavy stuff.
The Surgeon is pursuing me relentlessly.
I knew that he would react this way when I left him. This isn’t my first rodeo.
Memo to self: he does not want you because he loves you.
I know, myself, that urgent, violent need to POSSESS an individual. (Unlike the Surgeon, I can control this urge, and I’m aware of it, and I can TURN IT OFF when the time for it is done–when it is no longer appropriate to feel or engage in these behaviors). That–the desire for possession and its attendant security— is what he is currently feeling, in addition to the feeling of being insulted. And out of control. Hates to feel out of control; for a personality like him, there is nothing worse. We are just alike.
But the intensity of his scrutiny–it’s like standing in the sunshine; it’s what I’ve craved all my life. To be seen, to be recognized (by the object of my desire–this is different than wanting to be liked or popular). This is what makes me such an excellent masochist. And I am, without question, a superlative masochist. I am not afraid of pain, and I can eroticize being the subject of hatred.
The best way I know to channel, handle this, is to be controlled by someone who will not damage me.
Where do I find such a man…?
If it can’t be done, then how can I give this up?
Oh God, I’ll take this down for certain. Too intimate. But I cannot afford my analyst these days.
Okay, it’s Saturday night and I’m sitting home alone like some loser. I’m a young woman; if I’m not having sex right now, I have no one to blame but myself. Fine. I accept this. It’s just me and my birds, watching last night’s episode of Real Time with Bill Maher. James Carville is still kinda Hawt, and he used to be one of the best hired killers in Washington before he became just another partisan hack. He’s lazy and sold out, but in the 1990s, he was absolutely lethal, and you never completely lose that sort of talent. While he does not qualify for Imaginary Boyfriend status, Carville could still beat me with a coat hanger whenever he wanted to. Call me, Mr. Carville. I’ll provide the coat hanger. All you have to do is show up.
Just me and Parrot! Yup!
Fine, out with it, out with it: I am pissed. Pissed I’m lonely right now, pissed that I still want to lose weight, pissed that my leg looks like it was beaten by a rank amateur (not too far from the truth), and I am EXTREMELY PISSED about the B.S. experience I endured today at my secret job.
How can I discuss this experience on my blog without risking fucking myself over….?
I cannot. Oh well!
Man rolls into the Superstudio high as a kite (this is not unusual, or necessarily alarming). On a bender and out of his mind. He wants to see Miss Margo. Okay, he’s not threatening, he knows what he wants, he’s not trying to violate any of my boundaries. Miss Margo is not here to judge you about your drug use, so long as you mind your manners. You are apparently an established wackadoodle. So, okay. Let’s rock.
I tell management: I’m going in. They KNOW this man is nuts. They gave him vodka to calm him down. Think about that. “Here, have three vodka-cranberries to mellow out!”
I was left in that room for thirty goddamned minutes OVERTIME (unpaid) before I could get out of there. He didn’t try to hurt me, he did not violate me. If he had, I would have run for it or tasered him or called the K9. I knew the time was running over, but I couldn’t prove it, because there are no clocks there, and I cannot wear a watch. I was waiting, waiting waiting–knock knock, please!
If this was a normal job, I would be suing, or at minimum filing a formal complaint with HR.
It was dead–no other business–and management was SNOOZING on me for no reason, and I had to handle this batshit high individual who was bouncing off the walls. Forget the fact that I wasn’t remunerated for my time–I should not have been neglected or unattended by the management. I have NEVER had a person this bad at the Superstudio. Never. Give me Jackass John any day–ANY DAY! John is nuts but sweet as cake. Give me Jame Gumb. I mean it.
I could not say to the management: “WHY DIDN’T YOU LOOK OUT FOR ME WHEN YOU KNEW THAT I WAS WITH THIS FRUITLOOP?! WHY DON’T YOU GO SPEND TIME WITH HIM?! WHAT AM I PAYING YOU FOR?! THANKS FOR NOTHING!”
They manage my bookings. If our relationship becomes tense or hostile, I won’t make a dime.
Never again, never again.
That’s the sad thing about learning boundaries in this life: unfortunately, you rarely recognize and enforce your own until after they have been violated. Like Depp’s character said in that film The Libertine: “Every lesson worth learning in this life in invariably learned at your own expense.” (That’s the quote as I remember it; it may be inaccurate.)
10:40 PM P.S. On a happier note, I went to verify that quote from The Libertine. Unfortunately, the film is not free online at YouTube. Oh, the injustice (I am being sarcastic). Anyway, if you haven’t seen this film, you ought to see it. This is not a costume-romance period piece. Nothing corny or breezy here. It is serious, serious as a heart attack, and the writing and acting simply cannot be improved upon. The people making this film were trying to make a point. Several points. This is a serious actors’ film; the type of project an actor would commit themselves to just for the character and dialogue they could play.
Okay this is a misleading POS from Youtube; it is only a trailer, please only watch the only 1:06 minutes. Sorry. I couldn’t find anything better. The Libertine wasn’t a blockbuster, you know.
One of the sexiest movie scenes EVER. In the scene, Depp’s character is re-seducing his (intelligent and rightly disgusted and fed-up) wife in a carriage. This movie is fascinating for many reasons. Depp is a cynical alcoholic, but he is not insensitive, and he acknowledges the people who have emotionally contributed to his life (like his wife. Note, though, his cold hatred towards his mother–important). He is not a sociopath. Could be a terrible person, though, as active addicts typically are.
Power. Power, here. She was worth a ton of cash, he took her, he was imprisoned for doing so (it goes without saying that women had to be from super-important families before accosting them merited legal action in those days), and she insisted that he be released to marry her. POWER. Electric. On both sides. Why else would she put up with this philandering junkie asshole? And what would be he without her money–not that he was poor to begin with. He’s got a noble title and creative talent, but practically, BFD, right? It’s output which is crucial, not potential. She had to put up with his awful husbandry because culture demanded it, but she could have checked out of the relationship emotionally. Found a lover to be close with (maybe she did). Someone to give her children, if she wanted them.
But she is there, there, there with him, till the very last. Her “Dear Abductor.” She cared about him, and he hit the jackpot with her in every meaning, and he knew it, even though he neglected her terribly. There is a scene in the film in which Depp’s character is dying of syphilis and alcoholism and he’s pointlessly infuriated the King (his boss) again, and his long-suffering wife shouts at him: “I am ever your last resort!”
I understand. Sweetling, I know you are a fictive character in a film, but I have to wonder: what sort of person was your father?
From a preview of a Walt Whitman piece I’m working on….
I believe in you my soul…and the other I am must not abuse itself to you,
and you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass…loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music, or rhyme I want…not custom or lecture,
not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer morning;
You settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned over
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my barestript heart,
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.
The barestript heart, the barestript heart, and loosing the stop from the throat.
I’ve read it a million times, and still the emotions it provokes within me are so powerful that I cannot stand it. Why does it feel like pain?
I’ll chicken out and take this down.
Well, that was interesting!
For obvious reasons, I cannot talk in any detail about my professional or academic life on this blog. Suffice it to say that I went out of town to introduce the research presentation of a scholar who hired me to edit his manuscripts and manage his datasets because he is too ossified and stubborn to be bothered to learn the computer software. His field of study is only vaguely related to my own. Whatever–I needed the money, and I need to fill up the white space on my C.V. in whatever way I can.
After the presentation, I rushed to a hotel and emerged like Clark Kent changing into Superman. Well, not exactly. Perhaps that is not the most accurate metaphor. I just passed through the veil; fell back into my secret life.
|Dressed for Dinner|
I had a blind date scheduled with an interesting fellow–he of the douchebaggy Corvette (he’s an academic too–what he was doing with that car, I’ll never know–most of us tend to be Prius, Honda, and Ford Fiesta types).
Some people say you shouldn’t date right after a breakup. Personally, I think that is silly. You shouldn’t date if you don’t feel like it. But it can be good for your self-esteem and sense of perspective to get out of the house and hang out with someone new who you can have fun with. Just don’t lie about anything. Keep it ethical.
Was this a date? I don’t know what this was. Hmmm.
I had a good time–many new things–interesting and sharp fellow, being in a strange city, hotel room (I love hotels. Love love love hotels). It was so…exciting? No. It was an escape. That is what it was. It was an escape from my life.
|LOOK AT THIS AWESOME SHOWER!!! It rains from the ceiling plate. I spent 2 hours in there. Such accommodations are not destined for the likes of Miss Margo, so I enjoy them while I can.|
The man was not the most competent Top I’ve ever seen. Hate to say it. I know it’s easy for me to say this, because I have a lot of experience, and unfortunately, most people who are interested in sadomasochism just don’t get the opportunity to develop their skills. Especially the men. They just don’t. It’s tough. I really sympathize with the plight of BDSM daters. Hell, I’m one of them, I know how it is.
I also know that many people lie in their online profiles and personals ads. I’ve done it–I’ll admit it. When I was drinking, I said that I was a “social drinker,” which is hilarious now that I think about it, because I was exactly the opposite. I’ve lied about my neighborhood (afraid of stalkers). I guess that men are supposed to lie about how tall they are, but I’ve never cared about that. Guys complain that women lie about their body type.
But do…not…misrepresent your skill set to me. I’ll know if you do pretty quickly.
A few of these injuries are not where they should be. That is my professional opinion.
|note defensive injury on arm; wraparound on sides and hip|
|That lumpiness is not cellulite, but swelling. On the side of the thigh…? Whaaa?|
Well, ladies and gentlemen, I can finally die happily now: I have ridden in a Corvette.
Readers of Pieces of Margo will know that I don’t give a damn about cars and, if anything, actually consider them to be obnoxious. A scourge of the earth, if you really want to know. The internal combustion engine was not one of mankind’s best ideas.
However, since I have just ridden around inside of a preposterous douchebaggy luxury sports car for the very first time, I decided to report on it.
The leather seating was too hard, and as you can see, there was no room for my legs. It’s true that I have long legs, but come on–what if I was a six-foot dude? How do people sit in this thing on a regular basis? The car looked very flashy, however, and got a lot of attention from other drivers and passersby, which, I am sure, was the whole point. Indeed, like Miss Margo herself, it was the perfect vehicle for a certain gentleman’s midlife crisis.
|note bruise on right knee, and yes that is the SEAT underneath my thigh|
|note DIFFERENT bruise on inside of right knee. Classy! Trying to carry legs elegantly in six inches of legroom.|
My wakeup call’s at 7 AM and I cannot sleep. The minibar is threatening me. I should have asked the hotel staff to remove it. I heard (too late) that they will do that for you if them to. Note to fellow people in recovery (or at least new ones, like myself): get that booze out of the room; you’ll feel better. (I have a recovering friend whose boyfriend keeps a full bar in their apartment. I don’t know how she handles it.)
|Screw you, minibar! Thanks for nothing!|
It’s okay, I will be fine. What would I get out of sucking down that $60 bottle of Johnnie Walker except a raging hangover for the train back to NYC and a depressing relapse into a lethal life-destroying dignity-stealing addiction?
Well, that was a nice reality check.
Maybe now I can get an hour’s sleep….?