Lying in bed the other night, trying in vain to get to sleep, I noticed a pain in my right thigh. A strong pain.
Given my propensity for overabundant imagination, within minutes I’d decided that the pain was cancer (not simply overexertion from yoga, no, that would be too simple!) and that traditional treatments would fail. The leg would have to be amputated, shrieked my fantasy! At the hip!
Would anyone lust after an amputee? Would sex work? Could I still have doggie-style sex? Would I need the human version of this? Would it be possible to prop my leg stump up on a small table next to the bed? Could my partner steady me?
All this from settling too deeply into warrior position.
Or…
Yep, that’s it. Forgot to take my meds.
______
My husband’s shrink is growing out his hair. Longer hair does nothing for him.
Pity, that. His hot-ness was pretty much the only thing that kept me ticking along through counseling sessions.
______
Ordered a rechargeable vibe, but not the one alluded to here. It arrived. I’m saddened to report that it is weak, horribly weak.
Is there no other way than the Hitachi? Am I down to only one alternative? Must I put live electricity between my legs?
Barbaric, it is. Simply barbaric.
______
For a Christmas gift, I’m working on a complicated and slightly tedious project for my mother, one that involves pictures of her family. Photoshop is great for removing unwanted elements in pictures, such as food on a child’s face, but I swear it’s wrecking my vision.
And you all thought I’d go blind from masturbation.
