I’m thinking I really ought to set up a calendar somewhere with a series of coded markings, demonstrating when I get action of any sort. I think this will help prove to all and sundry that I’m not getting laid anywhere near as much as people seem to assume. Do you think maybe, just maybe then people will leave me the fuck alone?

Why do people feel the need to tell strangers about me and my fictitious sex life? Big A told me at his birthday celebration that not only does one of his friends still bear a grudge against me (why? Because A dared to befriend me and have a female friend other than her), but the asshole from the summer, R, was telling one of his housemates exaggerated stories of what goes on in my sex life.

Uh, excuse me? In a bad year, I speak to R once, and even then, not really — I don’t feel the need to address any comments towards him, so whatever he ‘knows’ about my life either stems from here (and as anyone in my life can tell you, this site represents about 5% of what’s happening in it at any given moment), or from what his deluded little mind has made up for itself about what shenanigans I get up to.

Christ, sometimes I wish I had half the sex life people seem to think I do — of course, it’d also be nice to meet all of these guys I’m apparently fucking, just so I can at least assign a face or a name to the act we supposedly did.

Not to mention how exhausting it is always having someone or another assuming that a particular mood of mine can be attributed to the absence or presence of a man in my life. Guess what, my friends? I’ve had plenty more bad sex than good, so if I’m feeling mellow or otherwise pleased, the odds of it being because of a guy aren’t particularly favourable.

Oh yeah, and when I code that calendar, I think I’ll include in it how often I get myself off (or “masturbate,” if you will). This will help demonstrate how uncommon of an occurance it is, as well as how completely unrelated it is to my moods and their fluctuation.

People piss me off a hell of a lot more and a hell of a lot more often than sex soothes me.

And I’m sure someone, somewhere reading this is thinking, “Fuck, this chick needs to get laid, badly!” And you know what? I really don’t. I don’t miss sex right now, I haven’t been horny in I can’t think of how long, and I’m of the half-serious opinion right now that one more heartbreak and I’m just giving up on the whole Y-chromosomed lot of you. It’ll either be a vow of celibacy or a vow of lesbianism, I’m undecided at this point.

*sigh* I was going to write a long update about my weekend and what transpired during it, but right now… I don’t know. I’m just pissed at people right now, and half-seriously thinking that my list of males with whom I want to associate is very very limited at the moment. Maybe my dad grandfathers and about five male friends with whom I’ve never had sex and never will. Everyone else can just about hang right now.

Oh yeah, and my apartment has mice. I’m definitely not staying past the end of my lease.

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