Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll
Okay, so technically this ain't about rock & roll, so we're just gonna get that bit out of the way right off the bat, so I can't make a liar out of me. Here goes:
Armand Van Halen's 'Here My Name' kinda makes me laugh, cause I always wonder, at "say my name, baby..." if that might not be asking for a seriously inopportune time to find out that, nope, they don't know your name. (Don't get me wrong, I don't go around forgetting names that badly, but I could empathize, cause I'm just one of those people who are really, really bad with names. I mean, I was that kid in high school who accidentally called the principal "Mom." And fucked if I can remember which name goes with my kid, and which one goes with my cat.) It probably doesn't help that 'Hear My Name' has those 'Night at the Roxbury' headboppin' kinda beats, which sorta makes me think of things that can go seriously wrong, in ways that are very, very funny, as long as they're not happening to me.
So that's that.
Now, on to Sex and Drugs:
Sex is good. Drugs are good. Sex on drugs is gooder. (You're allowed to say 'gooder' when talking about sex on drugs. Trust me. I looked it up.) Do sex on drugs. Lots. Hell, multitask: take up shooting junk, move to East Hastings and get paid to have sex, money with which you can then by drugs, which you can do while having sex, to make money for more drugs.
No, wait, that wasn't where I was supposed to be going with this. Lemme give this another go, would ya? Bear with me here.
Now, on to Sex and Drugs:
Sex is good. But sex is like drugs, and that can be bad. No, not like acid, or shrooms, sex doesn't make me hallucinate (should it? am I missing something here?), or like weed, it doesn't give me the munchies (should it? am I missing something here?), but more like cocaine, or, presumably, heroin.
See, after The X, up until Adrien The Windsurfing Instructor From France (you know I just love saying that), was a 2 1/2 yr timespan that I didn't get laid. Sure, for the first 1/2 yr I was pregnant, and I just can't start something with someone while pregnant. The next year, I was breastfeeding, and I just can't start something with someone while leaking milk. And yeah, do the math, that does leave completely unjustified sex free year.
Problem is, I'm picky. *snort* *snicker* *weeze* *hack up a lung* Okay, make that: I have a short attention span. I don't find many guys that I can maintain an interest in for longer than a month. Hell, two weeks is pretty good. This worked back when I thought that sex was a great way to get to know someone. Now that I have The Kid, I figure it's probably good policy not to sleep with someone before I make sure that they are not a) a pedophile b) a pyro c) a klepto d) George Bush. This whole 'getting to know you' thang can take at least two weeks to a month (especially the George Bush part, he's a sneaky little fuck, that one), so by the time they pass muster, well, I'm bored of them. And what happens? No sex for Impulsive.
Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh yeah - big, big, bigassed sex free stretches. So I know the ins and outs of sex withdrawal better than you could even imagine. Sex withdrawal is a sneaky, sneaky thing. You spend six months tweaking out, biting heads off, and making a general ass of yourself by acting pissy to anyone who's actually getting laid. Then, after a while, you start to get over it. You still want sex, but you come to the realization that not getting laid hasn't killed you yet, and there's a chance it might not. And people can talk about sex around you without you stalking out of the room in a snit. Of course, this is all cyclical, but you learn to ride out the bad times, and wait out the good times.
Now here comes the subversive part of sex withdrawal: once you get back to sex, it had better be a lot of fucking sex. (hehe, fucking sex) Cause that's where sex and coke are like twins separated at birth; they both have that fucking addictive quality. That's right, you think that you can get laid once, and it'll tide you over, give you a bit of a fix, just enough to get through? Fuck no. You get laid, you need more. If it's bad, you're left needing satisfaction. If it's good, you're left wanting more.
So next thing you know, all you're thinking about is sex. Yeah, I hear all the men in the house going, hey, ain't that every day? But you just don't know. Cause the problem here isn't thinking about sex, it's the fact that I do not have a poker face. Au contraire, my friends, you can read my like a book. A book about sex. Probably this book. And I'm a day dreamer anyway. So I'll be sitting in the cafeteria, thinking I'm deciding wether to go to class or get another coffee and read the paper, when I suddenly realize that I've blanked out for the last couple of minutes. I look up, and conversation has stopped. Five people are at the table, staring at me, and they're convulsing with laughter. At the coffee bar, Kelly's eyeballing me, with a twisted grin on her face, and the line up of people waiting on their coffees don't even care, cause they're all laughing their asses off at me too. Yeah. Everyone in the room know's when I'm thinking about sex. Seriously, the other day I was contemplating a spot on the floor, and a woman I've never met ducked down to waist level, just so she could get into my line of sight and give me a big thumbs up grin.
I dunno what it is, maybe I think out loud? Shit, that would not be good.
Once again, where was I going with this? That's right, it's Story Time:
So today, I took the bus up to SFU with my friend C. I scored the last seat, and left C. standing in the aisle, cause I'm a self centered bitch like that. Anyway, C. was standing right next to my seat, and I, in a combined fit of bus induced hypnosis, pre-menstrual horniness, and post free-beer lassitude, caught myself just as I leaned back to snuggle my head comfortably into C.'s belly. C. is, of course, a married woman with two kids, who fortunately has enough of a sense of humor that, had I followed through, would have pissed her pants laughing at me. Public transit has got to be the worst place to accidentally make out with your friends. Gotta be. Even if it is just a nice little snuggle.
Anyway, moral of the story is...something. There's a moral in here somewhere.
There it is:
Be a winner. Don't do drugs.
Am I copping out? Hell yes I am. I've got no closer here, so deal. Hope the withdrawal doesn't suck to much.
Armand Van Halen's 'Here My Name' kinda makes me laugh, cause I always wonder, at "say my name, baby..." if that might not be asking for a seriously inopportune time to find out that, nope, they don't know your name. (Don't get me wrong, I don't go around forgetting names that badly, but I could empathize, cause I'm just one of those people who are really, really bad with names. I mean, I was that kid in high school who accidentally called the principal "Mom." And fucked if I can remember which name goes with my kid, and which one goes with my cat.) It probably doesn't help that 'Hear My Name' has those 'Night at the Roxbury' headboppin' kinda beats, which sorta makes me think of things that can go seriously wrong, in ways that are very, very funny, as long as they're not happening to me.
So that's that.
Now, on to Sex and Drugs:
Sex is good. Drugs are good. Sex on drugs is gooder. (You're allowed to say 'gooder' when talking about sex on drugs. Trust me. I looked it up.) Do sex on drugs. Lots. Hell, multitask: take up shooting junk, move to East Hastings and get paid to have sex, money with which you can then by drugs, which you can do while having sex, to make money for more drugs.
No, wait, that wasn't where I was supposed to be going with this. Lemme give this another go, would ya? Bear with me here.
Now, on to Sex and Drugs:
Sex is good. But sex is like drugs, and that can be bad. No, not like acid, or shrooms, sex doesn't make me hallucinate (should it? am I missing something here?), or like weed, it doesn't give me the munchies (should it? am I missing something here?), but more like cocaine, or, presumably, heroin.
See, after The X, up until Adrien The Windsurfing Instructor From France (you know I just love saying that), was a 2 1/2 yr timespan that I didn't get laid. Sure, for the first 1/2 yr I was pregnant, and I just can't start something with someone while pregnant. The next year, I was breastfeeding, and I just can't start something with someone while leaking milk. And yeah, do the math, that does leave completely unjustified sex free year.
Problem is, I'm picky. *snort* *snicker* *weeze* *hack up a lung* Okay, make that: I have a short attention span. I don't find many guys that I can maintain an interest in for longer than a month. Hell, two weeks is pretty good. This worked back when I thought that sex was a great way to get to know someone. Now that I have The Kid, I figure it's probably good policy not to sleep with someone before I make sure that they are not a) a pedophile b) a pyro c) a klepto d) George Bush. This whole 'getting to know you' thang can take at least two weeks to a month (especially the George Bush part, he's a sneaky little fuck, that one), so by the time they pass muster, well, I'm bored of them. And what happens? No sex for Impulsive.
Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh yeah - big, big, bigassed sex free stretches. So I know the ins and outs of sex withdrawal better than you could even imagine. Sex withdrawal is a sneaky, sneaky thing. You spend six months tweaking out, biting heads off, and making a general ass of yourself by acting pissy to anyone who's actually getting laid. Then, after a while, you start to get over it. You still want sex, but you come to the realization that not getting laid hasn't killed you yet, and there's a chance it might not. And people can talk about sex around you without you stalking out of the room in a snit. Of course, this is all cyclical, but you learn to ride out the bad times, and wait out the good times.
Now here comes the subversive part of sex withdrawal: once you get back to sex, it had better be a lot of fucking sex. (hehe, fucking sex) Cause that's where sex and coke are like twins separated at birth; they both have that fucking addictive quality. That's right, you think that you can get laid once, and it'll tide you over, give you a bit of a fix, just enough to get through? Fuck no. You get laid, you need more. If it's bad, you're left needing satisfaction. If it's good, you're left wanting more.
So next thing you know, all you're thinking about is sex. Yeah, I hear all the men in the house going, hey, ain't that every day? But you just don't know. Cause the problem here isn't thinking about sex, it's the fact that I do not have a poker face. Au contraire, my friends, you can read my like a book. A book about sex. Probably this book. And I'm a day dreamer anyway. So I'll be sitting in the cafeteria, thinking I'm deciding wether to go to class or get another coffee and read the paper, when I suddenly realize that I've blanked out for the last couple of minutes. I look up, and conversation has stopped. Five people are at the table, staring at me, and they're convulsing with laughter. At the coffee bar, Kelly's eyeballing me, with a twisted grin on her face, and the line up of people waiting on their coffees don't even care, cause they're all laughing their asses off at me too. Yeah. Everyone in the room know's when I'm thinking about sex. Seriously, the other day I was contemplating a spot on the floor, and a woman I've never met ducked down to waist level, just so she could get into my line of sight and give me a big thumbs up grin.
I dunno what it is, maybe I think out loud? Shit, that would not be good.
Once again, where was I going with this? That's right, it's Story Time:
So today, I took the bus up to SFU with my friend C. I scored the last seat, and left C. standing in the aisle, cause I'm a self centered bitch like that. Anyway, C. was standing right next to my seat, and I, in a combined fit of bus induced hypnosis, pre-menstrual horniness, and post free-beer lassitude, caught myself just as I leaned back to snuggle my head comfortably into C.'s belly. C. is, of course, a married woman with two kids, who fortunately has enough of a sense of humor that, had I followed through, would have pissed her pants laughing at me. Public transit has got to be the worst place to accidentally make out with your friends. Gotta be. Even if it is just a nice little snuggle.
Anyway, moral of the story is...something. There's a moral in here somewhere.
There it is:
Be a winner. Don't do drugs.
Am I copping out? Hell yes I am. I've got no closer here, so deal. Hope the withdrawal doesn't suck to much.
posted by Impulsivecompulsive | 6:05 PM
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