Que Sera Sera
Feb. 26th, 2008 06:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraWell, these do not look promising:
The fine print on that second in case you can't read it promises I love the willingness to allow me to bring any amount of pleasure I'm competent enough to bring, once a mature lady yields herself to all the hedonistic, intense pleasure she can writhe to.
ICK.
He's trying to hook up with Doris Day, right? He read in The National Enquirer that Doris Day lives around here, that she's lonely. In fact, I've had several conversations with Doris Day myself in the Carmel Valley Albertson's. We discussed the right way to pick honeydew melons. "The stem end should be a little soft," she told me. "You can sniff it." She popped her head down into the fruit bin. "Don't buy this one."
"I always heard you were supposed to thump them," I said a little nervously. I mean, this was fucking Doris Day.
"Well, you heard wrong," she said.
She looks pretty fabulous for her age which must be around 103. I don't think she's had a facelift for a couple of decades. The subject of cunnilingus did not come up.
Yesterday was a rather dreadful day all told, consisting mostly of me sneaking out from my office job at hourly intervals and rounding up what little bits of cash I'd stashed here and there. Several large checks I'd written had turned up at the same time in my bank. Yes, of course, I shouldn't be writing checks on nonexistent funds. Except I always do and usually the checks don't get cashed until the beginning of next month.
I guess everybody's having cash flow problems.
(The new job people don't actually care if I'm in the office or not as long as I get my work done, which I do. I am now officially after one month the fastest and most accurate copy editor there.)
I dropped by the Little Store. Ben had closed both the doors and was hunched over his laptop, reading Andrew Sullivan or the Huffington Report or whatever it is he reads so obsessively, hunkering down so low he looked as though he'd developed osteoporosis in his shoulders, the classic dowager's hump.
"Why do you have the doors closed, Ben?" I asked. "It's a gorgeous day."
"Nobody's coming in," he said.
And this was surprising to me because the Little Store had had an excellent weekend and even yesterday, the parking lots were full.
Then it occurred to me. He meant he didn't want anyone to come in.
And I thought, oh dear – the rest of it I can kind of handle. Que sera, sera. But I can't handle Ben in a depressive stupor. I have absolutely no sympathy. Zilch!
"Please keep the doors open," I said as gently as I could. "There are a lot of people out there. Besides, it's sunny and glorious."
The fine print on that second in case you can't read it promises I love the willingness to allow me to bring any amount of pleasure I'm competent enough to bring, once a mature lady yields herself to all the hedonistic, intense pleasure she can writhe to.
ICK.
He's trying to hook up with Doris Day, right? He read in The National Enquirer that Doris Day lives around here, that she's lonely. In fact, I've had several conversations with Doris Day myself in the Carmel Valley Albertson's. We discussed the right way to pick honeydew melons. "The stem end should be a little soft," she told me. "You can sniff it." She popped her head down into the fruit bin. "Don't buy this one."
"I always heard you were supposed to thump them," I said a little nervously. I mean, this was fucking Doris Day.
"Well, you heard wrong," she said.
She looks pretty fabulous for her age which must be around 103. I don't think she's had a facelift for a couple of decades. The subject of cunnilingus did not come up.
Yesterday was a rather dreadful day all told, consisting mostly of me sneaking out from my office job at hourly intervals and rounding up what little bits of cash I'd stashed here and there. Several large checks I'd written had turned up at the same time in my bank. Yes, of course, I shouldn't be writing checks on nonexistent funds. Except I always do and usually the checks don't get cashed until the beginning of next month.
I guess everybody's having cash flow problems.
(The new job people don't actually care if I'm in the office or not as long as I get my work done, which I do. I am now officially after one month the fastest and most accurate copy editor there.)
I dropped by the Little Store. Ben had closed both the doors and was hunched over his laptop, reading Andrew Sullivan or the Huffington Report or whatever it is he reads so obsessively, hunkering down so low he looked as though he'd developed osteoporosis in his shoulders, the classic dowager's hump.
"Why do you have the doors closed, Ben?" I asked. "It's a gorgeous day."
"Nobody's coming in," he said.
And this was surprising to me because the Little Store had had an excellent weekend and even yesterday, the parking lots were full.
Then it occurred to me. He meant he didn't want anyone to come in.
And I thought, oh dear – the rest of it I can kind of handle. Que sera, sera. But I can't handle Ben in a depressive stupor. I have absolutely no sympathy. Zilch!
"Please keep the doors open," I said as gently as I could. "There are a lot of people out there. Besides, it's sunny and glorious."
