My date last night: I decided to leave Hank in his box and work with just my bare hands, which means that being on the futon upstairs was kind of like sitting in the splash zone at Sea World.

Heh. Casualties: one bed pad, six towels, my new black undershirt, my panties, and the clean sheets we'd just put on the bed. You could've added my jeans if I'd left them on. I don't know why, but making Sara shoot juice all over the place just makes me feel ... powerful, cocky, proud, elated.

Sara had only had about four and a half hours of sleep that morning, and she got sorta drowsy after we were done. We had some time to spare, so she fell asleep in my arms, and I woke her up about 20 minutes later. It was so sweet you wouldn't believe. And that woman sleeps about as hard as she fucks. Major REM sleep complete with kicking and teeth snapping.

Needless to say, in my estimation, there is nothing better than a good couple hours of solid sex. Hoo-ah!

Which leads me to my pathetic attempt to resurrect my dried-up guest book. Who would you rather throw down with, me or Sara? Or are we so over-the-top you'd be scared to get in the same dungeon with either one of us?

The guy in the elevator. I got on the elevator this morning with three other people. One guy is wedged up in the front left corner of the car, right up against the button panel. His briefcase is touching the front wall. Two people get off the elevator, leaving just him and me.

It's a big elevator. Plenty of room. But he stays mashed in that corner. He's not looking at anything except maybe the reflection of his nose in the chrome panel three inches from his face.

I'm not scary looking or anything, really. I'm just standing there, sort of in the opposite corner, but with a lot more breathing room, not crammed up against the wall like a slut in a horror movie with the killer coming at her.

Ideas about what's up with that? Anybody? My thoughts have ranged from raging, unexpected hard-on ('cause he's in the car with me, just oozing personality and sexiness), to man on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

A vignette from my day. I work with this total hottie named Elsa. I mean hot. Rowr. Yum. Could be a model if she wanted to except she's probably too short. She's 23 or some ungodly young age. I, myself, find it hard not to grab her ass like I used to do to the cute gay boys at my old job. She and I and my boss, a really sweet guy in his early 40s (I think) are standing in the hall talking along with a couple other coworkers.

Generic coworker: Elsa, did you see your convention buddy today?

Elsa: No, he wasn't downstairs.

Boss: Who's this?

E: Oh this guy who walked me up the street the other day. He said he was in town for a convention for a few days and just wanted somebody to talk to.

Boss: Uh-huh. Was he nice or creepy?

E: Nice, I guess. He wasn't hitting on me or anything.

At this point, my boss lets out one little "Ha" laugh, turns to walk away, and under his breath just mutters, "You child." Not being mean, just a sighing comment. It was hysterical.

Okay. My mother is coming. In less than 24 hours. Ahhhhhh! Do I look freaked out? Gotta remember to smoke 400 cigarettes between now and when she gets here. Sucking in sweet narcotic carcinogens down to the moment I see her car turn on to our street.

And finally, does anybody want me to get one of those subscription notification update thingys?

Moving on - 12:11 p.m. , 2007-08-14

Where the hell have I been? - 12:10 p.m. , 2007-02-19

Holy shit! - 2:24 p.m. , 2006-01-11

Stuffing recipe - 6:17 p.m. , 2005-12-13

Good Life Update - 10:22 a.m. , 2005-11-11