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Nice calves + nice cleavage = calvage

This is what I was told by the drunk man lurching across the table last night.

Yes. It was as dreadful as it sounds.

Yesterday evening, after work, my sister, another associate and myself set off for sushi. Once we got there, we were accosted by a man who we had all worked with, at one point or another. He sort of invited himself over to our table.

This was eight-thirty. He had been drinking since 5. Needless to say, things were getting a little sloppy.

Since my sister was the one that invited him, I let her deal with his slobbering drunkenness. I engaged the other associate in conversation, trying vainly to ignore the buffoon who was intent on ruining our dinner. I forgave the loud belches, the eating of sushi with the fingers, the comments about how he wanted to "hit it" with my sister and the psycho girlfriend who accosted us at the dinner table. (We had no idea who this overly pregnant woman was. His AA sponsor?! Sister?! Concubine?!)

But what really made my skin crawl, was his indepth description of all my appreciated body parts and the reactions to said body parts. Not just his reaction, but everyone with who I used to work.

I heard about the length of my legs, the definition of my calves, the curve of my butt, the size of my breasts and the beauty of my smile. In drunken, blunt terms, no less. My scathing replies were completely lost on him. He could barely understand himself, much less process thoughts and/or words of others.

I felt so, so NAKED! I mean having my body parts described in detail while eating is more than nauseating. Much less, MY body parts.

I really think I should start keeping the Super Conductor Cattle Prod II with me at all times.

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This odd narrative is my life. I ended up in Pittsburgh, of all places--from the beach. I have no hobbies, other than cooking excessively and eating microwave popcorn. I enjoy shopping, the Food network, hiding the remote so the Food network cannot be turned off, find ethnic food stores and restaurants and reading voraciously. My life is decidedly pedestrian.

I worked in the car business where I was required to be ruthless and soul-less wench, which is when I started this project. Since then, I've kept it up because secretly, I've always wanted to join the military. Every male in my mother's family has joined and I quietly entertain thoughts of joining. I haven't yet and don't know if I ever will, but sending the troops cookies keeps me sane. it makes me think I still have a shred of human kindness left in my withering soul. it's a small way for me to salute the men and women who are brave enough to fight for freedom. And makes me feel like I'm contributing toward troop morale--even if I'm not. So if you want to help, send me addresses of troops you know stationed overseas. you may also contribute toward the cost of chocolate chips, but don't feel obligated, that link is here only by request.

the past


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