but something keeps turning you on

So, I'm sitting here listening to my pants with all the clunky pockets clatter in the washer and berating myself with a sort of internal litany of the day's failures in a style that repeats the term dumb bitch ad nauseum. As if I needed it, I just watched a horrible homevideo online of a fatal, fiery car crash and that has made me feel even worse, and very scared to be home alone like a child. (I have already called myself a dumb bitch for these additional things.)

I feel like I've been doing laundry all night, but it isn't done. I'm mad about work stuff and I am tired of all music that has ever existed and there's too much to do. Now that I've explained how vulnerable I feel, I want to tell you something real. I want to say something significant, or better yet, funny, but the only secrets I have tonight are that for a while I sat down on the floor and cried (like a child, or say, a dumb bitch) for absolutely no reason at all except that my stupid dumb ankle hurts and I felt needy. Then I felt stupid, so I got up and did more laundry.

Sometimes, it feels pretty good to nurse a bad mood or throw oneself a pity party. It's indulgent, like buying stupid white cheddar puffs or makeup I don't need, but probably just as empty. I should drink a beer and write more. This post would be more illuminating and less pathetic so far if you didn't know I was writing it stone cold sober.

One thing about today was that I bought some nice new incense from the silly hippiedippie store downtown. They got a new shipment in and it was very fresh, much darker and richer-smelling than the dried out old stock they've had in forever. I got "dragon's blood," although it's not the same brand I used to use for legends. I like incense, but I'm not very good at it. I mostly pick the scents based on the names. "Mystery Moon"--yeah, that sounds like a smell I like. Sometimes it goes out when I light it. I remember once watching a friend light some, and the way he was very careful to let it burn enough at the tip. Then he blew it out--but softly, really slowly, not all at once like a kid blowing out birthday candles the way I do it.

Okay, so, during the earlier fit of pathetic crying I mentioned, I smeared my eyeliner onto my nose pretty good. I just looked in the mirror and noticed it, and that made me laugh.

I also thought of something else--just remembered it suddenly out of the blue, so I'm gonna write about it because I guess that's what I'm doing tonight. When I was 16 or 17, I had an internet friend--not Roo, a less cool one--who was older than me and married. And a weirdo. And into writing sexy Star Wars (torture?) porn, but that's kinda related. Anyway, she mentioned to me once that she and her husband never, ever, ever had sex--that he'd bought her toys so he wouldn't have to fuck her. Even at the time, as a Super Virgin (like the super moon, but more frantic) I gawked at that. I remember very specifically her saying that to him, having sex with her was just like doing the dishes--another chore. He was heavy, and she couldn't have kids, and so this is what they had worked out. And it wasn't like...a thing, you know? She was perfectly happy to use her toys and he was perfectly happy in a sexless marriage. Allegedly--I mean, who really knows, but I'm still her friend on facebook, and they always post little jokes and quotes and stuff to each other. They seem pretty genuinely happy--or happy enough, I guess.

I frankly don't know why I'm thinking about this. Most writers have a point when they want to mention things, particularly bizarre, sexual anecdotes, but I don't. I guess I don't think I could live in a kind of arrangement like she had. I'd go crazy. I'm a physical person. I half think part of my issue tonight could be solved by a pretty good hug.

Still laundry. Still here.